


Flesh and Blood and Bone and Heart

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bombs, Fix-It, Infidelity, M/M, Murder, POV: John Watson, Romance, So much kissing, Suspense, Terrorism, extremely porny, post-series 3, post-tab, so much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As John takes Sherlock back to Baker Street rather than seeing him off to his mission in Serbia, Sherlock decides to reveal how very human he is, after all, and the fall-out will have enormous consequences for them both...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My endless thanks to my good friends Irrevocably_Sherlocked and HappierStill for reading over my shoulders as I wrote this one. Your hand-holding and reactions have been completely incredible to have throughout the journey of writing this story!!

**Flesh and Blood and Bone and Heart**

 

**I**

The car door in front of him slams as Mary gets into the passenger seat, but John barely hears it.

He feels stunned and cannot even look at Sherlock, sitting to his right. He still feels slammed by the wave of shock and anger that hit when they walked onto the plane and Mycroft took one look and gave his disgusted pronouncement, _Oh, for God’s sake, he’s high_. John’s combined worry over Moriarty’s apparent return and elation at Sherlock’s had evaporated like a drop of water in the Sahara. He’d rushed toward Sherlock, but Mycroft had noticed something else first: a list, plucked out of Sherlock’s long index and middle fingers. He’d handed it to John to scan, then taken it back. _But he can’t have,_ John had said stupidly, and Mary gave him a pitying look. _You know he can, darling,_ she’d said, not particularly gently. _He’s an addict. He’s probably just overdosed. We might have to call an ambulance if they don’t have the proper supplies on board. Though I don’t think you should be treating him, either._ John had opened his mouth to protest, but then Sherlock had opened his eyes. John had waited to hear him contradict Mycroft, to say that he hadn’t been high, that John was right and that he’d only been in his mind palace, lost in thought, but he hadn’t said any of that. Instead it was shifting and not meeting anyone’s gaze directly, and John hadn’t even been able to check. He’d rolled his eyes at Mary’s _’Cause you probably just OD-ed?_ , but no one else had disputed that, either. 

He is so angry and disappointed and shocked that he cannot even bring himself to ask directly, not here, in front of Mycroft and Mary. And there is a bigger question than where Sherlock managed to obtain that laundry list of narcotics. The question is _why_. If he was already high on the tarmac, then he can’t claim it was because of Moriarty. It has to have been because of whatever he was going to be doing in Serbia. The primary question is one that scares him so badly that he can hardly even allow his mind to put it into concrete words, and yet it’s blaring at him from within his head, anyway: did Sherlock just try to commit suicide? John’s throat is tight. _Why?_ Was Serbia _that_ unpleasant? Or – has he missed something? Or was the overdose an accident? ( _Was_ there an overdose in the first place? Sherlock is extremely functional for someone who supposedly took all the substances on the list he was holding.) His head aches dully. 

“Where are you going?” he asks Mycroft, still looking out his window. 

He can feel Mycroft looking at him in the mirror and refuses to meet his eyes. “You tell me,” Mycroft says, with that same bland smoothness, as though they didn’t just have that little exchange, there. 

John makes up his mind at once. “Baker Street,” he says brusquely. “You can drop us off and take Mary home.” It’s where Sherlock wanted to go, anyway. He supposes he could put his foot down and insist on taking him to Molly’s lab, but he’s decided he would rather do it himself. 

Mary protests at once. “No, I’m coming with you.” 

“No.” John doesn’t look at her, either. “Not this time.”

“John – ” She is annoyed now. 

“I said no!” Something in his tone shuts them all up. To his right, Sherlock is notably silent. No one tries to discuss Moriarty or ask Sherlock what the hell he’s on about this time. Nothing. The flat silence bores into his ears like a drill. 

Mycroft stops the car outside the flat and does not offer any sort of assistance. Mary does not break her sulky silence and John avoids her eyes as he passes her window, though he can see that her profile is looking straight ahead in any case. He walks around the car and watches critically as Sherlock exits on his side, looking to see how unsteady he is on his feet. He seems to be fine, but then he was fine on the tarmac both before and after the plane, too. His eyes are no help – the pupils were dilated on the plane but contracted to normal size again immediately once exposed to daylight. Apart from his stumble on board, which could have happened to anyone after a rapid take-off, hard turn, and swift landing in short order, nothing in his movements has given indication of any lack of coordination or dizziness. John touched his forehead on the plane and it wasn’t noticeably cold or clammy, nor was it feverish. Has he managed to convince even his body to lie for him about this? 

He watches Sherlock open the front door with ease, calling out to Mrs Hudson, and feels sick. He barely hears all the contretemps between the two of them, Mrs Hudson fussing and asking dozens of questions that fill the air like gnats and Sherlock’s half-answers and finally can’t take it any more. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock actually shuts up and starts up the stairs and the questions fade away as Mrs Hudson watches them go, her concern following them like tendrils of vapour. Sherlock goes into the sitting room and takes off his coat and shoes and watches John do the same, obviously waiting. 

John indicates the loo with a jerk of his chin and leads the way, going inside and dropping into a crouch to pull open his medical kit under the sink. He pulls out a sterilised cup still in its plastic packaging, stands and bangs it down onto the counter, and looks pointedly at Sherlock, then moves away to let him by. 

Sherlock is standing in the doorway and he understands at once. “Now?” 

“Mm-hm.” John’s throat feels so tight that he can hardly get the syllables out. 

Sherlock looks at the cup, then enters the small room and takes off his suit jacket. He hangs it on the doorknob of the door leading into his bedroom, then unbuttons and rolls up both sleeves and washes his hands. He dries them, peels the plastic off the cup, and glances at John through the mirror. “Are you… staying to watch?” he asks, lightly enough to make it sound polite. 

“Yup.” John doesn’t budge, crossing his arms. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to have a pre-stored urine sample somewhere in the loo for precisely such an occasion. He could make a joke about hoping that Sherlock isn’t pee-shy, but there isn’t one single thing about this situation that’s funny. He nearly lost Sherlock. Again. ( _Did_ he try to kill himself?) The question makes his chest ache so badly that he almost feels nauseated. 

Sherlock hesitates, then gives in without saying anything. He moves to the toilet, uncaps the sample cup, and discreetly unzips. 

“Mid-stream, please,” John says, not looking directly at him. Though he really should; Sherlock is the most intelligent person he knows (Mycroft doesn’t count, damn it, he thinks with irritation) and who knows how he could get around this if he wanted to. 

Sherlock makes a sound to show that he understands, and begins to go. John glances over once or twice and tries his best not to look at Sherlock’s cock, but it’s hard to supervise someone taking a piss without noticing this. Despite Sherlock’s onetime fondness for hanging about the flat half-clothed or draped in only a sheet, John’s never actually seen it before now and is almost annoyed to discover that it’s bigger than he’d thought it might be, even soft. Sherlock stops without making a sound, picks up the cup, deposits a reasonable amount for the sample into it, sets the cup down, finishes his piss, then zips himself away again. He does it all with precise movements that suggest both previous practise, which John hates, and sobriety, which confuses him. Sherlock screws on the lid and washes his hands again, re-dries them, and sets the cup down in front of John, the tops of his cheeks slightly flushed. “There you are.”

John’s own face is a bit warm. It’s a bit awkward, forcing your best friend to take a piss with you watching, even if you happen to be the only doctor he’s ever willing to see. “Thanks,” he says gruffly. He picks it up and takes it out of the loo, trying not to notice its warmth. Of course Sherlock’s piss is warm. Everyone’s is. Still: it’s a strange indicator that he actually _is_ human. He takes it into the kitchen and puts it into a paper bag, writes Sherlock’s name and the date on it, then takes out his phone. Molly answers on the second ring. “Molly, hi, it’s John Watson,” he says, keeping his voice low but not so low that Sherlock won’t hear it. “Need a favour, if you’ve got a minute.”

When the call is finished, he goes into the sitting room. Sherlock has sat down at the end of the sofa, turned sideways, one leg folded beneath him. “Anything else?” he asks, in that same, carefully light tone. 

John goes over and touches his forehead. Nothing unusual there. He pushes an eyelid back with his thumb and has another good look at Sherlock’s pupils. They’re a little dilated, but the sitting room is also somewhat dim. “Any nausea?” he asks. “Racing heart?” 

“No nausea,” Sherlock says, and takes John’s hand to move it to his neck, to his pulse point. “What do you think?” 

“It’s a bit fast,” John says, hating the fact. He stops touching Sherlock at once and straightens up. “Are you sleepy?” 

“No, but I do need to think,” Sherlock starts, but John shuts this down. 

“ _No._ Not yet. We’re not through yet,” he says darkly. His upsetness is too close to the surface and threatening to come boiling over. He needs distance, a moment to settle himself. “I’m making tea,” he says and goes abruptly into the kitchen. 

He hasn’t been in this kitchen for a week, and neither has Sherlock. John was at home, his actual home, the one he’s been trying to make himself think of as ‘home’ for ages now, and Sherlock was in prison. _Prison_. It all still seems so surreal. He’s felt dazed since they left for the Holmes’ on Christmas morning. Everything has been so different. 

The doorbell rings, scattering his thoughts and he puts the kettle on and takes the sample downstairs, where one of Mycroft’s minions is waiting. Molly called him, then, John realises, handing the sample over. He’s got them all so well-trained. “I’ll want the results as soon as possible,” he says quietly. “Call my mobile.” 

The agent or assistant or whatever he is does not ask for the number. Evidently this is already well known. “Yes, sir.” The sample is placed in a discreet black bag and the agent disappears. 

John goes back up to the kitchen and sees the same two mugs that they drank their tea from on Christmas morning still sitting by the sink. Of course: Sherlock never came home after Christmas at his parents’, either. John washes those two specifically instead of just using clean ones. Anything to postpone the _So, were you trying to kill yourself, or what?_ conversation. He dries the cups and goes to scoop loose tea into the tea pot, waiting for the water to boil. When he brings the tea out into the sitting room, he’s satisfied to see that Sherlock isn’t passed out or ‘in his mind palace’ or whatever the hell John is supposed to think of all that now. Instead he’s sitting docilely at the end of the sofa where John left him. John forces a smile that doesn’t quite work. “Tea,” he says, holding a cup in front of Sherlock in a tone that says he expects him to take it. 

Sherlock accepts it. “Was that someone from the lab?” 

He’s far too intelligent. John both loves him for it and wants to wring his neck over it. “One of your brother’s men, yeah.” 

Sherlock absorbs this in silence and sips his scalding hot tea. 

John hesitates, then sits down next to Sherlock, facing forward, his profile to him. “You know I have a lot of questions,” he says quietly, not even sure where to start. 

“Naturally.” Sherlock sounds almost sympathetic and this is irritating. 

John scowls, but even he can see that it’s his worry coming out the wrong way. He can’t start with _that_ question, though. Not after Bart’s. Not after seeing him on the pavement like that, blood streaming over his face, his skin as white as death. He casts about for an easier question, though none of them are easy. “How did you get all that in solitary, then?” he asks, the question coming out strained. 

Sherlock takes another sip of his tea, possibly as an evasion. “Guard,” he says briefly, after. 

“Let me guess. Either you knew him and he owed you a favour, or you deduced some sort of bollocks about him that pushed the wrong buttons and you used it as leverage to make him do you a favour.” John’s seen the game often enough, and he doesn’t try to conceal the impatience in his voice. “Which was it, then?” 

“The first, actually.” Sherlock sounds almost nervous, his tone too light in mock-facetiousness that doesn’t fool John. Not this time. 

He nods and sniffs and attempts to keep his composure. “A prison guard owed you a favour and smuggled you in enough drugs to k – ” He has to stop. The word hangs in the air between them, unfinished, his throat closing. Sherlock doesn’t try to fill the silence, though John can feel his tension, as thick and knotted as his own. Can hear the thumbnail rubbing against the porcelain of his mug, uncomfortable, ill-at-ease. He doesn’t want to talk about this and didn’t want it to come up so quickly, but here it is, right at the surface and demanding an answer. “Why?” he asks, the word so heavy that it hurts his throat to ask it. He cannot look at Sherlock. His mug of tea is burning his hands but he cannot move to put it down, either. “And don’t say it was to solve the case, Sherlock. If you were already high on the tarmac, then I know you didn’t know about Moriarty yet. So why?” 

He hears Sherlock swallow. “I’m… an addict, John. It’s what addicts do.” 

_No_. Even this is too much. But it’s also not what he was asking, nor is it a proper answer. “No.” He says it out loud, finally turning his head and meeting Sherlock’s eyes. They’re deep blue in the dim late afternoon light of the sitting room, the pupils a normal size. He sees that Sherlock knows what he’s actually asking, yet still has to put it into words. Say it directly. “You tried to kill yourself.”

Sherlock looks down into his tea, lines appearing between his eyes, the corners of his mouth tightening. He doesn’t answer. 

“Why?” John asks again. It feels as though his entire chest is burning. His throat hurts. “Was Serbia that bad the first time? Couldn’t you have – ”

“What?” Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes are on his again. “Couldn’t I have what, John? Escaped? Called for back-up?” His tone turns acerbic. “Phoned a friend?” 

“That’s not very fucking funny, Sherlock!” The angry words burst out of him before he can think first. John realises that he is furious, and also dangerously close to having a complete emotional breakdown. 

Sherlock actually looks contrite. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and the tension eases slightly. He opens his mouth, thinks for a moment, then finally says, “Yes. It was bad. Very bad.” 

John doesn’t know what to say to this. “Bad enough to want to – escape – that way?” he gets out, the words jerky. He makes himself take a large swallow of very hot tea, trying to steady himself. The heat stings the insides of his cheeks and the roof of his mouth but does not burn. 

Sherlock’s lips press together a little. “It was a suicide mission, John.” The words are very quiet. “Mycroft gave me six months as a maximum. The reality probably would have been closer to two or three.”

John feels stunned again. Just hearing the word _suicide_ said out loud, acknowledged, made real, makes his stomach churn. “And Mycroft just – sent you into that, knowing?” He thinks of Mycroft’s words to him. _Look after him. Please._ How does _that_ work, then? ‘Look after him, because I’ll just kill him if I do it?’ What the hell! 

Sherlock’s arms are wrapped around his long legs, his tea balanced on his knees. “He knows I would have preferred that to a life sentence,” he says, the words low and barely audible, yet perfectly clear. “At least there would have been… some measure of control.” 

John glares at him, not comprehending and angrier than ever. “Whereas taking all _that_ would have given you full control over it? Was _that_ the point?” 

Sherlock’s jaw clenches visibly, and John sees that his nail beds are white on the mug. He swallows, thinking for a long time, then finally says, “It would have been…” He trails off. 

John waits, wanting to know the end of his sentence. The silence lengthens as Sherlock sifts through words or possibly debates whether or not he’s even going to finish. John’s mobile rings, startling him. He digs it out of his pocket. It’s the lab. He answers. “Molly.” 

“Yes, hello, John.” Molly sounds weary and a little sad, but not as much so as he might have expected. 

“That was quick. You have the results, I take it?” John glances at Sherlock unwittingly and finds Sherlock’s eyes on him, rather intent. 

“Yes.” Molly takes a breath. “He _is_ high. Or was. Cocaine. But the good news is that it wasn’t all that much. Honestly. It could have been a lot worse. In fact – are you with him right now? He’s probably well off it by now.” 

John frowns at the phone, turning his head away from Sherlock, though what that’s supposed to accomplish, he doesn’t know. “Are you sure? That’s… it? Just the, er, one thing?” 

Molly sounds confused. “Isn’t cocaine bad enough?” 

“No, it’s definitely not good, but – ” John still doesn’t understand. “I thought there would be more. Substances, I mean. A mix of things. You’ve finished all the testing?” 

“Yes, all of it,” Molly says, a touch defensively now. “I was told to do it as quickly as possible, and I did!” 

“Okay, okay,” John says, backing down. “Well – that’s – well, better news than I was expecting. That’s all. Thanks.” She starts to respond but he decides he just isn’t in the mood to deal with her questions at the moment, though he does rather owe her. “Look, I’ll talk to you later,” he says, cutting her off as gently as possible. “I’ve got to go. Thanks again.” He ends the call, feeling stunned all over again, but in a different way now. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, still waiting. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, not looking at him yet, feeling stupid. “You never took all that.”

“No.” Sherlock agrees quietly. 

Something releases a miniscule amount in his chest. “And you didn’t actually try to kill yourself.”

“No. It was one hit.” Sherlock’s eyes are boring into the side of his head. “I could hardly have been on my feet and speaking coherently if I had actually taken all of that. You’re a doctor. You know that. You observed it for yourself, and doubted what the others were saying.”

John makes himself turn and meet that blue gaze. “But… you could have taken it if you’d wanted to,” he says, guessing. 

Sherlock’s smile is almost a ghost, not even materialising all the way. He inclines his head in a very slight nod. “You get better all the time,” he says, the compliment unexpected. 

John lets his thoughts explore ahead, trying to figure out the rest of it. “So – you do have all that, then,” he says, positing the theory. “Have you got it with you?” 

Sherlock’s gaze doesn’t flinch or waver. “Yes.” 

“Where?” 

“Coat,” Sherlock says, not moving. 

John gets up, puts down his tea, and goes to get it. It’s not like Sherlock to be this meek, this cooperative. He almost doesn’t like it. But if he’s willing to supply answers about this, direct, honest ones at that, then he’ll take it. The coat is heavy, like always. He brings it back to the sofa and sits down again. “Where?” he asks again, direct to the point. 

Sherlock doesn’t look abashed. “Sewn into the lining,” he says. He clears his throat delicately. “Bottom left side.”

John probes with his fingers until he feels something. “How do I get it out?” 

“There’s a plastic snap,” Sherlock says, not reaching for the coat, as he likely knows that John would just about rip his arm off if he were to make so much as a twitch in the direction of the stash. 

John finds the snap and draws out a zipped plastic bag with thin metal box inside. He takes it out and opens it and feels sick: it’s the entire list that Mycroft found dangling from Sherlock’s long fingers. “So was this to last you the two or three months, then, or was it all just on reserve in case you decided to off yourself at some point before that?” he asks, his throat closing again. 

Sherlock swallows and looks at the tea he’s stopped drinking. He doesn’t answer the question. “Do both of us a favour and destroy that, would you?” he asks, his voice low. 

Without a word, John gets up and takes the lot of it to the loo and flushes it down the toilet. His head is pounding and he is beyond upset, past the point of fury, past the point of helpless despair. Sherlock really is an addict. He could kill himself doing this, and worse, it seems as though he’s been considering it as a genuine, valid option, caring so little for his own life that it doesn’t even seem to be a particularly large decision. _Hmm, on second thought, perhaps I’d rather not see this mission through. Overdose it is!_ John watches the last of the pills and packets of powder drain away, flushes again just to make absolutely sure that it’s all completely gone, and realises that the worst part of it is that he feels horribly disappointed in Sherlock. He can’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. He knows damned well how he’s always felt, or struggled not to feel, but it’s not as simple as just deciding not to feel a certain way. He knows bloody well that he’s loved Sherlock for ages, just as certainly as he’s known that Sherlock would never feel the same way in return, that the entire subject is completely futile and that if he ever wanted a shot at being happy with someone, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be with Sherlock. Not in that way, at least. But his admiration for Sherlock, for his intelligence, his humour, his wit, his musicality, all of it – those were undoubted qualities that he’s never had reason to question. Sherlock’s social behaviour can be a disaster, certainly, and John’s always known that the addiction was a shadowy threat mostly contained to the past, but not always. As far as he knew, the only breach had been the night before he’d found Sherlock next to Isaac Whitney, a slip that Sherlock has consistently maintained was fully intentional and case-related to this day. 

What John never thought to learn was that Sherlock has been lying to him all along. Nor that he’s a coward who would rather slip into a drug coma and overdose than face a dangerous assignment in the field. The disappointment is what hurts the most. He’s always known that Sherlock wasn’t perfect. No one is, and that’s fine. But this – it hurts. And Mycroft just handed over the reins, more or less. _Take care of him,_ he’d said, then in an unprecedented display of sentiment, added, _Please_. Normally Mycroft’s directives come in the form of commands: a dictum issued, followed by the click of him disconnecting without waiting to see whether or not John will accept it. This time he’s made it pretty clear that it was a request. Why, then? Has he finally realised that he cannot control Sherlock’s addiction any more? Is he fed up with trying? Does he think that John would have more luck? John thinks of his own non-response and the fact that he didn’t put his foot down and say, _No, Mycroft: it’s your brother, and I’m not equipped to deal with this any more than you are. And furthermore I’ve got a baby on the way and a marriage to try to reconcile and I can’t take this on board, too._ The truth is that they both know that he’s already accepted it, even if he didn’t say so out loud. The question is just how: how he’s going to swing this, how much it’s going to take, how it will cost his shaky reconciliation with Mary. But there was never any question of yes or no. 

When he is satisfied that everything has been flushed irretrievably away, John washes his hands and goes back into the sitting room. Sherlock hasn’t moved, except to hug his knees even closer to his chest, the tea mug on the coffee table now. “Was it a lie every time, then?” John asks abruptly. 

Sherlock looks up, looking startled. “What?” he asks. 

John sits down again, facing Sherlock this time, his heart thumping unpleasantly. He has to know, though. “Your mind palace,” he says. “Was it a lie every time? Were you actually doing something phenomenal and amazing, or were you just high every time? Just tell me, Sherlock. I need to know.” 

Sherlock’s expression is momentarily so stunned and hurt that it hits John like a blow. Then he carefully schools his features, his jaw tightening, and says, “No.”

“Sherlock – ”

“No, John, it wasn’t a lie.” Sherlock cuts him off, jaw clenched, spelling it out clearly. “I thought that _you_ knew that, if no one else ever did.” 

John feels a little taken aback by this. “Tell me, then,” he says, the pain heavy in his chest. _Tell me you’re still the genius I’ve always believed you to be. Please._ He does not say the words aloud. “I don’t understand. And your brother – ”

“Mycroft doesn’t know a bloody thing about me,” Sherlock snarls, the anger rising suddenly to the surface. “ _You_ know me. Or I thought you did.” 

This stings and John winces. He feels like a failure. He was supposed to be the one person who would put up with Sherlock through thick and thin, through good behaviour and bad, no matter his oddities. He was the one who said that he knew Sherlock for real. He’s always believed in him, and in his abilities. “I need a drink,” he says. “How long ago did you – ?”

“Six hours,” Sherlock says. 

John takes a long look at him, then nods. “Long enough,” he says. “All right.” He gets up and goes to the mantle where the whiskey is still sitting out from the night cap he’d poured them both on Christmas Eve. They’d both known he was leaving in the morning, he thinks now, a heaviness coming into his gut that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with Sherlock. Neither of them had said anything about it, but they both knew. He finds a couple of clean glasses in the cabinet where they’ve always kept them in the kitchen and pours two generous tots, bringing all of it back to the sofa. He hands Sherlock a glass, thinking that neither of them have finished their tea. No matter. This is better. “Here,” he says, and sits again. “So: explain.” 

Sherlock takes a long sip, swallows, and sighs. “You’ve seen it, John. You’re one of the only people whom I’ve ever permitted to be around me when going into my mind palace. You know what I do.” 

John hesitates. “Yes, but – how do I know, Sherlock? Are you really being honest with me?” The question sounds unvarnished and raw, but this is it: time for complete, stark-naked truth between them at last. “All of those danger nights – was I always wrong when I thought you were all right? Was I missing it all that time?” 

“John – ” Sherlock’s eyes widen, his brow wrinkling in concern. 

“Were you high?” John interrupts, not finished. “All that while – were you just that good at pretending? At hiding it from me? Have you been lying to me all this time?”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock says emphatically. “None of those times, John – and this time, I wasn’t even all that high, and it certainly wasn’t an overdose. I was just _thinking_ , for God’s sake!” 

John stares at him, wanting desperately to believe it. “ _None_ of the other times? Really?” 

“Really,” Sherlock says firmly. He nods at the glass in John’s hand. “You should drink that.” 

John takes a sip almost automatically, so geared to doing what Sherlock tells him. The whisky smells like peat fires, the smoke of it going up his nose and straight into his brain. He sips again. “Tell me the truth: when, before this morning, was the last time you were high? The last time you used?” 

“Apart from the morphine?” Sherlock asks, the question not quite pointed, but there’s a thorn in there somewhere, the morphine that Mary caused him to be taking in having shot him. “The morning at the drug den. With Isaac Whitney.”

John breathes deeply, trying to maintain control of himself. “And before that? During all that time when we were living together?” 

“Never, John,” Sherlock vows, his eyes fierce. “Not _once_. I promise you that’s the truth.”

Relief floods through John’s being. Relief, and a thousand other questions. He takes another, longer sip of the whiskey. “So – why is your brother so certain that you must have been high to have been doing it? Going into your mind palace like that?” 

Sherlock makes a sound of annoyance. “Because he is fundamentally incapable of processing the notion that for once in both our lives, I might be better at something than he is. A lot better. He can’t do it at all. He’s too lazy to try; he just stores everything externally or pays his minions to find it for him.”

John sips again, turning this over in his head. “So he would rather believe that you’re high than admit that you can do something he can’t?” he says, incredulous. Then again, it’s Mycroft they’re talking about. 

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “There was _one_ time, a long time ago. One overdose, I mean. I was much younger. It was reckless. I didn’t know what I had taken. It was before I discovered the work and I suppose I didn’t quite know what to do with my life. The stakes didn’t seem all that high. It was Mycroft who found me, and as he reminds me endlessly, got me to a hospital in time. And now, ever since, he’s always been on the look-out, always sure that another overdose is in my immediate future.”

John frowns. “How long ago was it?” he asks. The whiskey is beginning to loosen the tightness in his shoulders. 

Sherlock finishes his, cradling the glass loosely in those long fingers of his. “Eighteen years ago.” 

“Jesus,” John says in disbelief. “That’s almost half your lifetime ago.”

Sherlock makes a neutral sound, his eyes unfocused. 

“But you even said it yourself,” John says. “On the tarmac, on the way to the car. You said that you just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove that Moriarty’s really dead, whatever that means. We’ll get to that. Why did you say that, if you hadn’t overdosed – which clearly, you haven’t.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Easier to let you believe it than try to convince you otherwise,” he says, his voice a bit dull. “Mycroft told you, Mary believed it instantly, and you didn’t challenge it. You’re the doctor. Was I displaying signs of an overdose?” 

John feels his gut clench again. “No,” he says, his voice tight, hating himself. “You barely even seemed high, to be honest. I _knew_ that. I did see that.” He burns with it for a moment, more disappointed in himself than he was with Sherlock just moments ago. “I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it and feeling terribly. “I should have made my own diagnosis.” 

“Well, at least you had a test done instead of swallowing it wholesale,” Sherlock points out. “You granted me that much.” 

John thinks of how compliantly Sherlock went along with the entire urinanalysis and understands. “So – since that one time when you were nineteen, have you ever overdosed again? I know you’ve used, but – tell me plainly, Sherlock.” His voice has lost its sharpness, but he still wants to know. 

Sherlock shakes his head minutely. “No. Never.” 

John reaches for the whiskey bottle and refills both their glasses. “So this is just the narrative that Mycroft’s decided on for you and your life, world without end,” he says, irritated. “A nineteen-year-old kid makes a bad decision and remains forever a degenerate in big brother’s eyes.” 

Sherlock’s shoulders twitch in what could be a shrug. “He prefers to believe what he believes. It’s not entirely without reason, I suppose. I am a user, after all.” 

“But not – ” John begins to object, but Sherlock cuts him off, agreeing. 

“But not the way he thinks,” he says. A hand comes up to rake through his curls and for a long moment he doesn’t speak, obviously thinking about something. “It’s fine, John,” he says eventually. “I’m used to it by now. Nothing is going to change his mind and he’s never been one to give people the benefit of the doubt. It’s fine. I suppose I’ve never felt that anyone understood me. My motivations.”

John’s gut doubles up on itself again, guilt tying it in knots. “I’ve let you down, too,” he says, the words raw and unadorned. “I haven’t exactly given you a lot of credit, either.” 

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, as though to say that it doesn’t matter. “I’ve tried to present a certain image to the world. The man who was all brain, nothing more. I’ve tried to be that. I’m afraid the truth is that I’m not. I do experience fear. Serbia was – ” He stops. 

John looks down to see that Sherlock’s nail beds are white again. “Tell me,” he says, his voice low. Ashamed that he hasn’t asked before now. “What happened, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s jaw tightens and he swallows. “I was captured,” he says, sounding hollow. “I think it was nine days. I was starved. Dehydrated. Water-boarded. Beaten. Burnt. I wasn’t given any opportunity to talk my way out of it until the ninth day. There was a guard, a young man. I remember him wearing headphones, listening to music so that he wouldn’t hear me scream. One of his colleagues was sick once. I never saw him again after that day.” 

John feels ill, himself. “Because of what they were doing to you?” Sherlock nods. “Christ!” The word bursts out of him before he can prevent it. “How did you – ”

“I escaped on the ninth day. Mycroft had infiltrated their ranks, but didn’t lift a finger to actually help until I had freed myself. He did arrange transportation, though. And other things. Clothing. Food. Water. He’s not really one to get involved, so it was actually surprising that he came, himself.” Sherlock delivers all this very evenly, but his fingernails are still white. He shifts, unfolding his legs, still turned sideways on the sofa. Resting his elbow along the back of it, he raises his eyes to meet John’s. “I’m sorry, John,” he says, very directly. “I know I’ve disappointed you. Proven myself far more human than you ever wanted me to be. But the truth is that I was afraid to go back. I only ever planned to use all that as a last resort.” 

John thinks about the single hit of cocaine and decides not to mention it. Sherlock’s decision to say goodbye without actually saying goodbye, out of compassion for him, would have been difficult. “I get it,” he says, the words almost sticking in his throat, heavy and pained. “But I wish you had told me when you first came back.” 

Sherlock shrugs and takes another sip of his whiskey. “It’s not the most pleasant of subjects. I used to be afraid of being afraid. You remember Baskerville, surely. Now it strikes me that fear is a perfectly logical response, when warranted.” 

John nods, turning his glass in his hands. “Even geniuses are allowed to feel it.” It feels good to say this, to say aloud that his faith in Sherlock’s mind and abilities has been restored. Of course Mycroft would be jealous of Sherlock’s ability to disappear into the depths of his own mind that way. Of course he would write it off as nothing but a narcotic high, the easier, simpler explanation for it, for something he doesn’t properly understand, himself. 

Sherlock doesn’t smile at this, his expression sombre. “It would be easier not to feel anything. To be able to shut off that side of myself completely. But the truth is that I am far more human than I want to be.” 

John feels something in him dissolve. “What do you mean, exactly?” He takes another large sip, more to give himself something normal-looking to do than anything else. Keep it together, he tells himself. He can’t possibly mean that. 

An unfamiliar expression comes over Sherlock’s face. His brow is creased, the corners of his lips shadowed. “I’m flesh and blood, John. Not the machine I’ve tried to make myself. I’m as weak as anyone else. Subject to addiction. To fear. I experience the same… impulses as any other person does.”

“Impulses?” John repeats, his mouth going dry. “What sort of impulses?” 

“The emotional sort,” Sherlock says. He pauses for a long moment, then adds, much more quietly, “Desire. Uncertainty.” 

John’s belly attempts to consume itself. “Desire…” The word, singled out, repeats itself without his conscious volition. 

Sherlock raises his eyes to meet John’s, his expression still very serious. He nods. “I thought I could rule it out of myself. _Make_ myself not feel anything, the way Mycroft always meant me to do. He always told me that I was far too sentimental, too vulnerable, that the world would continue to take advantage of the fact. Of me. And perhaps that’s true. I’m far less able to cut myself off than I wish. I’m – horribly human, John. I have the same needs as anyone else, the same fears. The same wants.”

John becomes aware that he is hardly breathing. “Of course you do,” he says, though the knowledge is only dawning upon his slow-witted mind now. Of course Sherlock experiences all of that stuff. Is he just reading too much into this, or is Sherlock actually talking about him? If so, then everything suddenly makes sense. The cocaine on the tarmac. The willingness to throw his life away again. His glass is somehow empty and he puts it on the floor beside him. He wonders if his own wants are as transparent to Sherlock as Sherlock’s are to himself at the moment. “I see that now,” he says, the admission embarrassing to make. “Of course you want all that. Why wouldn’t you?” He hesitates, then adds, “And you can have it. You _should_ have it. Everyone deserves to be loved, Sherlock. And I – ”

He meant to say more, but before he can, Sherlock bends forward suddenly and kisses him. John is shocked by it. Sherlock’s lips are warm, pressed against his, and for a moment he finds himself too stunned to react. In a nanosecond, three very separate thoughts all occur at the same time. The first is _Mary – I’m married. I can’t do this._ The second is of Mycroft: _Look after him. Please._ He thinks of rejecting Sherlock now, after Sherlock has peeled off his skin and exposed all of this incredible vulnerability to him, after John just thought he tried to kill himself, and wants to shudder at the thought. Never. He would never do that to Sherlock. Not now. (Not ever.) And the third thought is something that doesn’t register in specific words, but manifests itself in a blaze of desire and love both, suppressed and denied and squashed down for far too long, and this drowns out the first two thoughts. He kisses back without hesitation, his hands coming up instinctively to seize Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock makes a very slight sound in his throat that sounds like either profound relief or sheer want or possibly both. There’s a ton of relief in this for John, too: relief that he didn’t lose Sherlock to Serbia or an overdose, relief that Sherlock actually wants this. They haven’t lost each other, pushed apart by John’s marriage, Sherlock’s death, real or feigned, by years of misunderstanding. They’re kissing. This is finally, finally happening. Everything is becoming clear in retrospect. He’d no idea Sherlock could ever want this, would ever tell him directly that he experiences sexual impulses and emotion like anyone else – emotion for _him_ , specifically, though in hindsight, who else would Sherlock ever say that to? Or feel that way for? It all makes sense now, and he’s been a complete idiot for not having seen it. How different things could have been, if only he’d known, or if Sherlock hadn’t made himself such a bloody enigma! It’s also shocking that Sherlock was actually the one to make the first move, as though he couldn’t prevent himself from doing it for one second longer. 

John hears himself make a sound rather like desperation and gets closer, and Sherlock winds his long arms around him, his fingers splaying out on John’s back, digging in. John chooses that moment to open his mouth, drawing Sherlock’s open, too, and when their tongues touch for the first time, he feels the paroxysm of desire that shudders down Sherlock’s spine. If he thought that this might be overwhelming for Sherlock, he thought wrong – Sherlock’s hunger for it is plain, unleashed in full fury now that he knows it’s all right to finally express it, and John isn’t holding back, either. He moves his arms to circle Sherlock’s shoulders, getting as close as he can in spite of their legs. 

“John – ” Sherlock is speaking against his mouth, the urgency all there. “I – ”

John takes the opportunity to attack Sherlock’s long throat with his mouth. “Hmm?”

He can feel Sherlock’s hesitation in the breath that gets stuck in his throat. “Never mind,” he says, clearly changing his mind. “Kiss me.”

It’s half-plea, half-demand and John is more than willing to comply. It feels as though five years of unsated, unfulfilled yearning has swum to the surface and overwhelmed them both. There is nothing in the world that could hold this back now, prevent it from happening. He refuses to give a second of thought to consequences or the future. Right now, in this moment, there is only this: only them, and everything that has never managed to happen between them. It goes on and on, time ceasing to exist. He feels like he can’t be close enough to Sherlock, crawling half onto him, craving him so badly it hurts, and Sherlock makes a sound of fervent agreement into his mouth, rearranging his legs so that they’re sitting chest-to-chest, their legs curled around each other, kissing with something very like violence. John feels like he can hardly contain how much he wants this, how incredibly good it feels to have Sherlock in his arms, their tongues pressing into each other’s, all of their pent-up want for each other finally, finally spilling over. His cock is hard as a rod in his jeans and he feels as though every pore of his skin, every hair on his body is reaching for Sherlock, wanting to merge with him. Sherlock’s hands move down to his arse, digging against the leather of the sofa and pulling him closer still. Their bodies press together all down their fronts and John discovers that Sherlock is as hard as he is. The knowledge shivers through his frame like electricity. He’s panting into Sherlock’s mouth, his entire body strained with need for the man kissing him as though the world is about to end, utterly lost in it, kissing him without restraint. There is nothing in the world that could make him stop this now. Not one single damned thing. John manages to pull his mouth away even as his hands start pulling at Sherlock’s shirt. “Get – take this off,” he says with difficulty, and Sherlock makes a sound of hoarse acquiescence. 

They break apart only far enough to fumble at their clothing, both their own and each other’s, fingers tangling together in clumsy, urgent need. Their shirts come off and then Sherlock’s fingers twist at the button of his jeans. John isn’t exactly surprised, but it’s simultaneously still shocking again that Sherlock is making the first move to ask for this. He hears himself make a sound of agreement and without needing to talk about it, they untangle themselves only long enough to get the rest of their clothes off. Sherlock reaches for him again and pulls him back down to the sofa, the same way as before: they’re face-to-face, touching from their chests to their cocks, legs wrapped around each other, and it’s exquisitely intimate. 

John can’t restrain himself; his hips are pushing forward, rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s as they kiss hungrily, fingers leaving red marks on each other’s backs. There’s no need to talk about it; it’s completely, perfectly clear that they’re doing this, that they both want it so badly that talking has become wholly extraneous. Sherlock is moaning, low in his throat, shifting and pressing himself into John in the same way, and it feels far better than John ever even allowed himself to imagine over years of secret wank fantasies. He’s never imagined that Sherlock could be like this, no holds barred, wanting it just as much as he does. They’re rubbing together and moaning, the kiss breaking off to pant against each other’s cheeks, arms still tight around each other, and it’s so good that John both feels that he could come at any second, and also that he’d like to just do this all day and then all night too, prolong it for as long as humanly possible. 

“John – ” Sherlock’s lips are on his earlobe, closing around it, his voice low and rough with need. 

John makes a questioning sound, his eyes closed, hips still rocking forward as he rubs himself against Sherlock’s erection. 

“I want to – I want the whole thing,” Sherlock says, his fingers still gripping John’s back. “The real thing. Can we – do that?” 

John doesn’t stop moving, but his movements slow a little. “The whole thing?” he repeats, aware that his voice has gone breathless. “Like – ”

“I want you inside me,” Sherlock tells him, his voice lower than ever, resonating in John’s skull. “I want to know what it feels like, at last. With you. I need to. Please, John.” 

A bolt of arousal pierces his chest and plunges south and for a moment John can hardly breathe. His cock throbs and wetness blooms from its tip and the breath he drags in sears his lungs. There’s a small, very quiet voice of objection rising, though, the one that somehow equates what they’re doing now – which is completely intimate and hot as hell – as not quite ‘real sex’ and therefore not quite real cheating, or some such inane rationalisation. This is already very definitely cheating, but putting his cock in Sherlock, actually fucking him – will that put him irretrievably over the line? Plus, there are other concerns. Sherlock is an addict. John has always used condoms with Mary. On the honeymoon, he asked and discovered that she’d stopped using birth control, though he’d never stopped wearing condoms. _We should have discussed that_ , he’d said, and Mary had got hurt and asked if he was upset she’d got pregnant, and he’d known better than to answer truthfully. It should have been a joint decision, though. This aside, John knows that the rest of him fiercely wants this – wants it so badly he could practically combust. And the horrible truth is that he honestly does not care about the rest of it. Mary. His vows. This is the only thing that matters to him now. “You really want that?” he asks, if only to hold himself in check for just a moment longer. Just to be sure. 

Sherlock kisses his neck, just below his ear, and says, “More than anything.” He pulls back far enough to look John in the eye, and the intensity of the eye contact nearly makes his blood boil. “ _Please_ , John.” 

He cannot say no to Sherlock and doesn’t want to, anyway. “All right,” he says, exhaling hard, and Sherlock seizes his face and kisses him fiercely. John attempts to keep it together, his body achingly hard and stretching toward orgasm, his need rising suffocatingly. He breaks off the kiss, breathless and flushed. “Have you got a condom? And we’ll need lube – ”

“Here,” Sherlock says, reaching into the sofa cushions and pressing a tube into his hand. He hesitates momentarily. “I’m clean, you know. I was tested very recently.”

John hesitates, himself. “But the hit?” he asks, very directly. This is too important to be delicate about. “I always used condoms with – but you – ”

“It wasn’t intravenous,” Sherlock says. A note of pleading comes into his voice. “Please, John. Trust me, on this one thing if nothing else. I promise you, I’m clean. And I’ve never – not with anyone – ”

John understands, his heart turning molten within his chest. There are so many reasons not to trust Sherlock, but now that it comes down to making a decision about this, he finds that he does, deep in his gut. “Okay,” he says. Then again, nodding. “Okay. I believe you. If we’re doing this, though, I’ve got to prepare you.”

Sherlock shivers, his eyes closing. “Do it. Touch me anywhere,” he says, his thumbs stroking John’s cheekbones. “Please. Do anything you want to me. Just – have me. Have all of me.” 

John takes in a deep, shuddering breath and tries to keep it together emotionally. There’s a part of him that wants to sob for not having known this, that they could have had this ages ago. He doesn’t know how far back it goes for Sherlock, but for him, it was always there, to some degree. Battened down by his own denial, his stern reminders to himself that Sherlock would never want it, that it wasn’t even a valid option and therefore not even up to him to choose or not choose. But Sherlock’s hands cradling his face say otherwise, as does the sweat between their bellies as they move against each other, Sherlock’s lips, inexperienced but not lacking in anything for that, on his forehead. Somehow John gets the cap off the lube and throws it somewhere. “Come here,” he says, meaning for Sherlock to shift onto his lap, straddling him. Sherlock gets it and moves with him. They kiss again and John slips two fingers down into the warm place where Sherlock’s body opens, rubbing at his hole as their tongues and lips stroke against each other’s. He feels Sherlock’s cock jerk against his belly, feels him inhale sharply, followed by a gust of exhaled moan. He’s tight, tighter than any – but John doesn’t want to think about anyone else. Just this. Just them. His own cock is harder than rock at the thought of being where his fingers are now. Sherlock is panting into his mouth, shifting down onto his fingers and kissing him hard, his arms wrapped around John’s neck. John gets a third finger inside and Sherlock gasps, breaking the kiss, and John bends forward to lave his tongue over the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, at the sweat gathered there. Sherlock tugs at his hair and rocks down onto his fingers. 

“Now,” he says, breathless and completely wanton, not trying to disguise the raw hunger in his voice. He reaches back for John’s cock, somehow having got himself a palmful of lube without John’s knowledge and slicks it over him and John groans, louder than he meant. “Please, John!” 

John opens his mouth to try to say something (probably completely unimportant), but Sherlock’s mouth descends onto his and kisses him deeply, open-mouthed, his fist still curled around John, angling him into position. John feels himself nudging into the heat of Sherlock’s body and then Sherlock sinks down onto him in one long, slow push. He’s gasping, his face a mixture of agony and ecstasy, shaking, and John holds him, gasping himself. It’s tighter than anything he’s felt before and shockingly intimate – it’s been years since he’s had sex without a condom and the difference is earth-shattering. No – it’s earth-shattering because it’s Sherlock. It’s _this_ , specifically. His hips have jutted instinctively upward into the tightness of Sherlock’s body, but it mustn’t go too fast; he doesn’t want to hurt Sherlock. “Easy,” he gasps out, awash in his own sensations. “Take it slowly!” 

Sherlock moans again, stopping only when John is fully sheathed in him. He is panting, his eyes closed, all ten fingers in John’s hair again, his head tipped back, mouth open. He is gleaming with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and John knows for a fact that he’s never seen anyone look as beautiful as Sherlock looks at this precise moment. He doesn’t move, letting Sherlock’s body adjust to having him there, and he needs the moment to pace himself, anyway, or else it will be over in about two seconds, and he wants it to last as long as it can. He kisses Sherlock’s chest and neck and whatever he can reach with his mouth, sloppy, breathy kisses full of his own, panted need, and after a little, Sherlock starts to move, lifting himself and shifting down again, experimenting, and John’s breathing goes right to hell, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s back so hard he’ll probably leave bruises. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down at him then, and the eye contact is every bit as intense as a kiss. They’re both panting too hard for an actual kiss, and in wordless understanding they start to move in earnest, John thrusting up into Sherlock as Sherlock sinks down onto him, riding him. They find a rhythm and accelerate. John’s entire body is wracked with pleasure like he’s never experienced before, and Sherlock’s face is aglow with something that looks practically transcendent. 

They speed up again, John lifting his arse off the sofa to push up into Sherlock’s body and suddenly this position isn’t enough. Without pulling out of Sherlock, John turns them sideways so that Sherlock’s on his back. It’s a bit narrow on the sofa but it doesn’t bloody matter. Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s back and grips his back as John plunges into him, and that’s even better – he can go deeper and harder like this. He’s grunting and thrusting and fully incapable of speaking at this point. Sherlock gasps out one word – “Harder!” and John nearly loses it, his body pounding into Sherlock beyond restraint. Need floods his every cell and he reaches for Sherlock’s cock and closes his fist around it, still pumping furiously into him. Sherlock inhales sharply and his breath catches, and John feels it happening from within him, feels the orgasm starting. Sherlock’s entire body spasms violently and wetness gushes over John’s fist. He can’t take any more – his own orgasm roars through his frame in a blinding blur of him thrusting so hard he could be splitting Sherlock apart, even as he’s coming, rutting into his own release, his balls twitching and sending out another splash of it and then another, until he’s finally spent. 

His arms give way first and he slumps onto Sherlock’s heaving chest, his lungs sucking in oxygen as though he’s just run a marathon. Their bellies are expanding and relaxing against each other’s, too, and he’s still inside Sherlock. Sherlock’s legs are limp, tangled around his, his hands on John’s back and arse respectively. John’s face is turned into his shoulder, breathing heavily into the skin of it, coming down and waiting for coherent thought to return. He gets his arms under Sherlock’s back, damp with sweat against the leather, and lowers his mouth to Sherlock’s. The kiss is strong and intensely good, confirming what just happened between them. John thinks again of Mycroft telling him to look after Sherlock and suddenly wonders if he actually had this sort of thing in mind. Probably not, but then, Mycroft probably knows exactly how Sherlock felt about him. Feels, John corrects himself, revelling in Sherlock’s lips on his, in his hands touching him with so much passion that John wants to kick himself yet again for not having figured it out a hell of a long time ago. They’ll have to talk about it at some point, but John hasn’t even decided what he needs to say first. 

The kiss winds down after awhile and John lifts his face, putting a hand on Sherlock’s forehead and stroking his hair back. Their eyes are on each other’s, each probably trying to figure out what to say first. “I wish I had known,” John hears himself say. The statement makes him feel hollow, despite how full he feels at the moment. 

Sherlock’s mouth compresses in self-reproach. “I never knew how to tell you,” he says, the admission rather bleak. “It was difficult admitting to myself how much you had come to mean to me. How much I wanted this. I never thought it would be a real possibility.” 

“Neither did I,” John admits. His cock is softening and will slip out of Sherlock in a few seconds and he’s not ready, not ready to not be joined to Sherlock this way. “How long have you known?” 

“Since before Bart’s,” Sherlock tells him starkly. 

“Oh God.” John feels despair batter at him. (How was he so blind?) 

Sherlock smiles a bit but doesn’t say anything to this. 

“So – all that time you spent, on the run and getting tortured and all that, you – ” John stops, and Sherlock doesn’t deny it. “And I was getting engaged – to the woman who shot you,” he adds, bitterly. 

“I didn’t realise that bothered you,” Sherlock says, fairly evenly, but John thinks there’s more behind it that Sherlock isn’t saying. 

He scowls a little. “I moved out for six months, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but then you went back,” Sherlock says. “It was a slightly mixed message.” 

John feels pained. “I know,” he says. “I – Sherlock, I – ”

“Let’s not discuss it now,” Sherlock says, sparing him. “Kiss me. Please.” 

John puts his other hand on Sherlock’s face now, too, and grips it as they kiss, their skin sweaty and warm, his soft cock still twitching in the heat of Sherlock’s body. He can’t think of a time when he felt so intimately connected to someone and it’s resonating in his very bones and blood. Without asking himself he knows that he could never give this up and fiercely resolves not to even try. He loves Sherlock. Is it too soon to say so? Possibly. He wants to go to bed with Sherlock, spend hours lying naked with him, skin-to-skin, just touching and kissing and making love as the need arises. It’s probably only just past noon. Not quite time for bed yet. Nevertheless. He pulls back and says, “Let’s take a shower together and then go to bed. I want to keep doing this for the rest of the day. And night.”

If he was expecting Sherlock to refuse him, he was wrong. “All right,” Sherlock says, his voice low and velvety and warm as autumn sunlight. 

*** 

In the shower, his hands find the long lines of whip scarring on Sherlock’s back and John aches over it, remembering the smooth, pale perfection that was his back before. “Let me see,” he says, his voice low and pained, and Sherlock obediently turns around. The scars are faint, more tangible than visible, but nonetheless plain to see and John’s chest aches. He puts his arms around Sherlock’s middle and kisses his scarred skin, and Sherlock’s hands come up to hold his arms, their fingers tangling together, not saying anything, just letting John do what he needs to do. John is filled with sorrow and anger both. “One day we’ll find them,” he vows, his eyes stinging in the hot steam. 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his. “It’s long over, John.”

“I want to kill the people who did this to you.” 

Sherlock turns in his arms. “I don’t want to go back there,” he says, and forestalls John’s objection by kissing him. “I want to stay here,” Sherlock murmurs after, his head dipping to kiss John again. “With you.” 

“Sherlock…” John’s eyes are closed, Sherlock claiming his mouth again, again, their hands stroking over each other. Some part of him thinks he should say that they won’t be able to keep this, and the rest of him is telling that part to go sod itself. He knows already that he would never give this up. Not for anything. He’ll sort out what he needs to do about Mary. The baby. He doesn’t want to think about that yet. 

They kiss and wash each other and kiss some more, and it feels like something out of a dream, only far better. They’re both hard again when John reaches back and shuts off the water, and harder still by the time they’ve finished towelling each other and themselves off. Sherlock opens the door to his bedroom and lifts his eyebrows in arch invitation. John follows him inside and Sherlock pulls back the blankets and gets into the bed, moving over to leave space for John. “This feels surreal,” he says. “Having you here. In the middle of the day, too.” 

John laughs. “That makes it more surreal?” 

“It does, a bit,” Sherlock says, his smile a bit self-conscious. “One always imagines these scenarios taking place at night.” 

John puts a hand on his cheek and kisses him. “I want to stay here tonight, too. If you’ll have me.” 

Sherlock does not ask about Mary, does not raise objections. “Okay.” He shifts closer and puts his arms around John and they kiss again, slowly and deeply, and John wants to shout and cry and love Sherlock as tangibly as he knows how, over and over and over again. 

He feels the hardness of Sherlock’s erection knock into his own and is almost shocked by how incredibly arousing it is, despite having just fucked the man in his arms not an hour ago. He’s always known he could have gone this way with the right person, but Sherlock was the only right person there’d ever been and that seemed like a no-go from day one. Maybe it was just too soon, he thinks, reaching down to take Sherlock’s cock in hand. Sherlock groans and the kiss breaks off as they both look down at John’s fingers curled around Sherlock. As he thought while Sherlock was pissing earlier, he does indeed have a very nice cock. Of course he’s seen other cocks, lots of them, usually soft, but in communal showers and such there’s always someone sporting a stiffy. This is the first time John has held one in his hand, though, and just knowing that it’s Sherlock – Sherlock who has always kept this part of himself locked away on seemingly-permanent reserve, is breathtaking. John looks at it, the full, long length of it in his palm. The foreskin is peeled back, exposing the flushed head, and as he touches it, a gleam of moisture appears and slides away. Sherlock breathes heavily and reaches for John in turn, his long fingers sliding over his balls and rubbing a little before wrapping themselves around the length of his cock. Their eyes meet again and John can’t help it, leaning over just a little to kiss Sherlock again, their mouths open, tongues sliding against each other’s in an intimate dance. It’s never felt this good in his life, having someone just touch him like this. Not even as a teen, fumbling hand jobs hidden behind the low wall at the edge of the school property or under the bleachers in the gymnasium. It’s every bit as inexperienced on Sherlock’s part, but no less good for that. Sherlock is gripping and stroking him as they kiss and it feels exquisitely good. John shifts closer and gets a leg over Sherlock’s hip so that their cocks can touch directly again, and Sherlock moans in a decidedly positive-sounding way. 

“The lube,” John manages, the words mangled against Sherlock’s mouth. “Where – ”

Sherlock makes a sound in his throat. “Sitting room,” he says, sounding annoyed. “But I think I have – ” He turns momentarily away from John to reach for the drawer of his night table, and the motion of putting himself onto his back makes his cock jut up into the air, angled toward the flat planes of his belly, and suddenly John can’t help himself. 

He reaches for it and begins to stroke it roughly, putting his mouth on Sherlock’s chest and working swiftly down to his belly. “Never mind,” he says into the warmth of Sherlock’s shivering skin, and Sherlock gives in and stops reaching for the drawer, his abdomen going concave. 

“John…”

It isn’t an objection. In fact, the very longing in it would suggest just the opposite, John thinks. He shifts lower, fitting himself between Sherlock’s splayed-open legs, ignoring the way his cock is dragging against the expensive sheets. He’s always wanted to do this, he knows. Came perilously close to giving it a go on his stag night, too, for that matter. He studies Sherlock’s truly lovely cock at close range, aware of Sherlock’s entire body quivering in need and anticipation, then takes it into his mouth. Sherlock makes an involuntary sound of almost alarm, his thighs jerking and trembling, cock thrusting into his lips beyond his control. John feels pleased with this reaction and sucks a little harder, getting as much of it into his mouth as he can, his fist stroking over the base of Sherlock’s length. The head is leaking copiously already. John licks and kisses it, then explores the underside of Sherlock’s cock with his tongue and lips and Sherlock pants helplessly above him. John glances up to see that his arms are above his head, gripping the pillow beneath it, struggling to keep himself both quiet and more or less still. John mouths the head of his cock in an obscene kiss again, meets his eyes and says, “You don’t have to keep that still, you know. Move if you want to. Put your hands in my hair. Do whatever you like.” 

“I don’t – know what I like,” Sherlock says with difficult, his breathing quick and shallow. “But everything you’re doing is – ”

John smiles around a mouthful of him and goes to work properly, determined to make a success of his first blow job. It’s an intimate thing to do for someone, all give and no take, and it’s no less intimate doing it for a man than for a woman. And it’s Sherlock, he tells himself again, trying to believe it. Sherlock’s arousal for him is rock-hard in his very mouth, completely real. He goes faster as Sherlock’s voice rises, his lips firm, the inside of his mouth as soft as he can make it. His hand is moving in tandem with his head bobbing over Sherlock and he reaches underneath to tug gently at Sherlock’s balls, too, his fingers lingering there to press into that place just behind and Sherlock’s body freezes for a second. 

“John – !” His voice rises in a spike of something like alarm, but he’s already coming, so hard that it catches John in the throat, making a sound that John has never heard him make before, one that makes his cock throb against the sheets. He nearly chokes but manages not to, swallowing it down, then swallowing again as his throat is flooded a second time. He eases off, keeping his mouth around the head and rubbing at it with his tongue, gentle, catching the rest of it and swallowing that, too. 

His own cock is aching fiercely, as though he didn’t just have the most amazing sex of his life only just a little while ago. But doing this for Sherlock is profoundly moving, somehow, and his entire being is aching, not just with arousal, but with the weight of everything that he feels for Sherlock, too. Sherlock finally stops coming, his cock beginning to go soft, and John crawls up his body to kiss him, one knee almost off the side of the bed, but it doesn’t matter. Sherlock kisses him back fiercely, his hands roving all over John’s back and arse, rubbing into his skin. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse, and John would laugh if only he weren’t in such desperate straits by then. 

“Sherlock – ” His voice is a groan, but Sherlock catches on immediately, his hand going down to grasp at John again. 

“What do I do?” he asks, the urgency plain in his voice. “What do you want? Should I do what you just – ”

He’s already so close that it almost won’t matter, but then, his desire to feel Sherlock’s mouth on him is almost overwhelming at the same time. “If you want to – ” he starts, and Sherlock doesn’t give him a chance to finish. Despite the heaviness of his limbs, he shifts down at once and takes John’s cock in his hand and mouth almost at the same time, as though instinctively comprehending that technique could not possibly matter less right now. He sucks hard, his lips and tongue all working at him and John groans so loudly that Mrs Hudson probably heard it downstairs. She’ll have heard Sherlock anyway, John thinks, another moan forcing its way out his throat. Encouraged by this, perhaps, Sherlock goes even harder, his curly head dipping over John’s lap as he sucks and sucks, remembering to use his hand, too, and it feels so good that John could just about die, he thinks. “Sherlock – I’m almost – ” He can barely speak, he’s panting so hard, and Sherlock continues undeterred, as though he didn’t hear it. John decides to say it again. “I’m going to – Sh – I’m coming, I’m c – ahh – ” His breath turns into a shout he didn’t mean to let escape and without meaning to, his hips plunge upward into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth and he feels himself coming what feels like a garden hose of release, as though he didn’t just come like crazy an hour ago, either. The orgasm washes over him in golden waves, Sherlock’s mouth on him the entire time, only letting up when John finally finds his voice and pulls at his hair. “Come here,” he gasps out, and Sherlock settles himself on top of him like a large, heavy, boneless cat, breathing as hard as John is, draped over him in contented bliss. John puts his arms around Sherlock’s scarred back and holds him as tightly as he can, breathing hard. 

They fall asleep that way, neither of them probably expecting to, and when they wake, John has no idea what time it is. Sherlock takes a moment or two longer to wake, his face unusually relaxed. When he blinks and stirs, John smiles at him and kisses his forehead and cheeks until Sherlock has enough of this and comes to claim his mouth again. They roll over and over in the bed, kissing and holding each other, and it’s like heaven, John thinks in a daze of sleepy, sensual bliss. They stop on their sides, arms around each other, legs tangled in the blankets and each other’s, naked and warm and lost in themselves. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says, very seriously, looking into his eyes, and John feels as though he could explode. 

He touches Sherlock’s face, feeling so much that he’s almost afraid to open his mouth. “I love you,” he says back, meaning it with every particle of himself. “I always have. I just never – ”

“I know,” Sherlock tells him. “I do. I understand. And I know why it couldn’t happen before. There are things I should have told you. I don’t know why I never did.” 

John studies him, searching his face. “Like what?” he asks. 

“There were snipers,” Sherlock says. “The day I jumped from the roof of Bart’s Hospital. One for you, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs Hudson. They would have shot you if I hadn’t jumped, if they hadn’t seen me. It was why you couldn’t know that I was alive. I’m sorry. I should have told you this when I first came back. I didn’t think it would make a d – no, never mind that. I should have told you.” 

John feels the dawning of the knowledge wash over him, making everything completely clear in retrospect. “Oh my God,” he says, stunned. “Sherlock – ”

“It’s all over now,” Sherlock says hastily, cutting him off. “Don’t – let’s not talk about it. But that’s why. Now you know everything.”

John has to swallow hard, his throat aching. “You should have told me sooner. How could I have ever not – ” He stops, unable to finish. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says. “You’re here now.”

John nods, swallowing again. “I’m here,” he agrees, foregoing the question of Mary. 

Sherlock smiles and doesn’t mention it, either, though John’s omission must seem very obvious. “Are you still going to stay tonight?” 

John smiles back. “Yes.” Sherlock kisses him and John drowns in it, either or both of them restarting it every time it tries to stop. A long while later, it finally does, and something occurs to John. The thought makes a laugh bubble up from his chest. 

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle and smile. “What?” 

“We completely forgot about Moriarty,” John says, feeling sheepish. “You were going to tell me what he’s up to.”

Sherlock detaches himself to stretch, yawning and turning onto his back. “I didn’t forget,” he says mildly. “There were just – more interesting things to focus on. More important things.” 

John laughs and pushes himself up onto his elbow. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s stomach and traces over the skin with his fingertips. “Fair,” he concedes. “But tell me, Sherlock. What did you mean by that? That Moriarty’s dead, but that you know what he’s up to?” 

Sherlock is watching his fingers move lazily. “That feels nice,” he says, the words sounding somehow unfamiliar and virginal coming from his mouth. Like he’s never said them to anyone before. 

John bends and kisses his chest, twice, three times, privately resolving to make those words commonplace on Sherlock’s lips. “You’re stalling,” he points out, smiling up at Sherlock. “Come on, genius. Explain.” 

Sherlock’s arm curls around his back, his own fingers trailing over John’s skin. “Moriarty is a concept,” he says. 

John frowns. “What does _that_ mean? He was real enough when I met him.” 

“Oh yes, he was a real man,” Sherlock assures him. “But for me, I mean – he is the heart of all human weakness; he is the ugliest parts of ourselves, the spider at the centre of every tangled web. He is what drives all people to do ill. He is our frailty, our need for validation. He is the jealousy that pulls a trigger. When we descend to the lowest forms of ourselves, it is he who we see in the mirror, looking back.” 

There is vehemence in his voice and John still doesn’t understand. “Okay, I get that, but – in a practical manner of speaking, what do you actually mean, Sherlock? If Moriarty is dead, which you say he is, then who was behind that broadcast? And what do you mean when you say you know exactly what he’s up to?” 

Sherlock turns his face into John’s forehead and presses his lips to it, vastly more tender than John ever knew he could be. “I mean that he is every incarnation of terrorism and evil, John. He is the heart of every criminal plan. He will go on taking various forms over the ages, and this time I think I may know his guise.” 

John tips his head back to look Sherlock in the eyes. “You sounded a lot more certain on the tarmac,” he points out. “ _Do_ you know, or don’t you?” 

For a moment, Sherlock is silent, keeping whatever he’s thinking to himself. “I think I know,” he says after a moment or two. “Let me sit on it until I’m sure. I haven’t had proper time to think about it yet.”

“Sher – ” John begins to object, wanting to know, but Sherlock interrupts him, gently. 

“Please,” he says, the request very plain. “If I’m wrong, it would – ” He stops, reconsiders his choice of wording. “I just want to be sure,” he reiterates quietly. “But we will have to be very alert. No sign is too small.”

John hesitates a moment longer, not satisfied with this, but after a bit, he concedes. “All right,” he says reluctantly. “But the moment you’re sure – ”

“Of course I’ll tell you,” Sherlock assures him, his voice low and almost gravelly. His lips find John’s forehead again. “You are my first and only confidante.”

John scowls. “I thought that was Mycroft.” Despite his grumpy words, he strokes Sherlock’s chest again, his thumb finding the indented scar of Mary’s bullet. He shivers. 

Sherlock feels it, his arm tightening in response. “Never,” he says, and for a moment John thinks he’s talking about the bullet. “Never again, at least,” he corrects himself. “I needed Mycroft’s resources last time. And I needed your ignorance. It was the only way I could keep you safe.” 

John’s heart swells. “Sherlock – ” He can’t help himself; he rolls onto Sherlock and kisses him again, mouth and hands rough and needy, and Sherlock meets him, surging upward in his arms and throwing himself into the kiss with abandon. It feels like five years’ worth of unspoken words and kisses that never materialised trying to fill the lost time, manifesting all at once in an unstoppable wave. He can see it all now, everything that Sherlock has done for him, and what it must have looked and felt like in return: Sherlock saved his life, and he married someone else, someone who shot Sherlock. And then Sherlock liberated them both from Mary’s blackmailer and allowed himself to be sent back to his torturers rather than waste away in prison for the rest of his life, his only concession to the fear the packet sewn into the lining of his coat. John can see now that the drugs were a thin, poor substitute for what Sherlock has wanted all this time: him. And he will never, ever deny it to either of them again. 

*** 

After awhile, they finally pull themselves together. Both their phones are with their clothes, which are out in the sitting room, but the clock on Sherlock’s night table says that it’s after five in the afternoon. Neither of them has eaten lunch and Sherlock says that he didn’t eat breakfast, either. John thinks of his own half-eaten eggs that he pushed around his plate for awhile that morning before he and Mary left for the airstrip, unable to summon much of an appetite, and his stomach rumbles. It feels like a week has gone by since the morning, and the emotional rollercoaster of Sherlock’s departure, return, perceived overdose, the painful aftermath, and then all of the magic that followed has left John with a roaring hunger. They wander out to the sitting room nude and Sherlock calls the Chinese on the corner to order in. John finds his phone and checks it. There are three texts, all from Mary. His empty stomach swoops on seeing her name. He unlocks the screen and scans them quickly. 

_You coming home sometime?_

_Is Sherlock all right? Let me know_  
_if you need help._

_Hello? John? Mind telling me what’s_  
_going on? Still at Baker St?_

Sherlock must have noticed his silence, the call finished. He comes over to stand behind John, arms coming around his waist, his face pressing into the side of John’s, reading over his shoulder. “What are you going to tell her?” he asks quietly, and just like that, the Talk is happening. 

John’s voice is tight. “Not the truth, that’s for damned sure.” 

Sherlock’s hummed response resonates into his skull. “Probably wise.” He hesitates. “John… if we’re going to keep going, keep this… we’ll need to be extremely careful.”

“I’m not giving this up,” John says, his voice low and fierce. “I can’t, and I refuse to. Not after it took so long to get. I don’t care about anything more than this.” 

Sherlock kisses his temple, then his neck, his hands seemingly unable to stop touching him, stroking over his belly and hips and chest. “I love you,” he says again. “Don’t – don’t quit this, not now, please – ” 

“I won’t,” John vows. “That’s a promise, Sherlock – I promise you I won’t.” 

Sherlock’s arms tighten still more, holding John so tightly it almost hurts. “Good,” he says abruptly, into John’s hair. “So then it has to be done with the utmost secrecy. You know how clever Mary is. She _must_ not know, John.”

John nods, his eyes closed, agreeing. “No. She can’t know. I agree.” 

Sherlock is almost rocking him. “You’ll have to go back, you know.” 

“Tomorrow,” John says stubbornly. “I’m not leaving you now. I can’t. It would rip me apart.” 

“John – ” Sherlock sounds as though he can’t breathe, and John twists within the grip of his arms and attacks his mouth again. They stand there, swaying together, naked and pressed together and kissing so hard it hurts, the need to breathe forgotten. John’s fingers are clenched in Sherlock’s hair when they finally part again, oxygen hitting his lungs like cold water, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, his eyes seeing nothing but Sherlock’s. Sherlock reaches up to stroke his hair with shaking fingers. “We have to be careful,” he repeats, his chest heaving against John’s. “You should get dressed. I’m supposed to be recovering from an overdose and you can’t be seen at the door like this when the food comes. If she has access to any sort of surveillance – the CCTV network – ”

“Right,” John says, understanding at once. He lets go with difficulty and starts putting his clothes back on. “You should put something on, too,” he points out. “Just in case.” 

Sherlock nods, a small smile that he doesn’t explain playing about his mouth. He retrieves his underwear and puts it on, then gathers up his clothing and takes it into the bedroom. When he comes back, he’s wearing his burgundy dressing gown, tied primly about his narrow waist. He drops a kiss on John’s mouth and puts two twenty-pound notes into his hand. “It should be here soon,” he says. “I’m going to close the curtains. We should always take precautions near any of the windows.”

They’re in the middle of the room now, but suddenly John’s view of the entire flat shifts to one of strategic blueprints: known vulnerabilities, sniper vantage points, angles and views, entry and exit points. Sherlock is right, of course. He remembers that he hasn’t responded to Mary yet, his phone forgotten in his pocket. He takes it out, thinks for a moment, then types: 

_Sherlock is okay, but he’s pretty_  
_weak. Sorry, had my phone_  
_switched off. I’m going to need_  
_to stay here overnight. It’s not_  
_severe but he should be monitored._  
_Also want to make sure he doesn’t_  
_relapse. See you sometime tomorrow._

He reads it again, then decides it sounds fine. ‘Monitored’ has a suitably brisk, impersonal, medical sound to it. “Do you think she’s really a nurse?” he asks out of the blue. 

Sherlock is sitting in one of the desk chairs, watching him, the lace curtains closed behind him. “Difficult to say,” he says thoughtfully. “You would think that she would have recognised the lack of symptoms of a true overdose, as you yourself suspected.”

“If she was with the CIA, when would she have got a nursing degree?” John asks. “I mean, it hardly seems like the sort of thing she’d have had the time for. Plus it’s not like it exactly goes all that well with a career in killing.”

Sherlock’s brows rise at this. “I thought you had genuinely forgiven her,” he says. 

John feels his mouth smile in a way that has nothing to do with mirth. “Responsibility only, I’m afraid,” he says. “Little more than that.”

Sherlock’s lip twists a little. “I thought that was a… sufficiently large draw,” he says. 

“Yeah. It was supposed to be,” John says, his voice a bit tight. “I was trying to do the right thing. But I sure as hell haven’t forgiven a damned thing, if you want to know.” 

“But – ” Sherlock hesitates. “I don’t think I should – ” He stops again, looking tremendously uncertain. 

John doesn’t know what it is he’s trying to ask. “What?” 

Sherlock’s mouth condenses, the lines around it deepening along with those at the bridge of his nose. “I assumed you had – resumed your marriage,” he says stiffly, then adds, for clarity, “in every respect.” 

Ah. John gets it. Sherlock wants to know if he and Mary have had sex since he went back. He opens his mouth to respond and the doorbell rings. Naturally, he thinks, with irritation. “Sherlock – ”

“You should get that,” Sherlock interrupts. He nods at the pocket where John stuffed the money. “Go on. It’s all right.” 

John doesn’t know whether he means it with regards to ducking downstairs to get the food or in terms of him and Mary, but it will have to wait. “I’ll be right back, then,” he says, and goes down to the door. He’s half-afraid it will be Mary, come to check up on him despite his text, but it’s only old Mr Cheung from the corner restaurant holding two large bags. They exchange pleasantries and John asks after the son who normally takes care of deliveries and listens to an explanation of the son’s study exchange in British Columbia, his gut burning within him all the while, feeling the absence from Sherlock already, pulling at him like a magnet from the upper storey. At last he manages to pay and get Sherlock’s change, glancing around in a way he hopes will look nonchalant on any cameras watching before getting the door closed and bolted and taking the food upstairs. He walks back into the flat, carries the bags over to the coffee table and sets them down along with the change. Sherlock has sat down on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin, but there is anxiety not quite hidden in his eyes. John walks around the coffee table, takes Sherlock’s hands and pulls them gently apart, then climbs onto his lap, straddling him. He tilts Sherlock’s face upward as tenderly as he knows how and says, “No, Sherlock. That’s the answer to your question. I haven’t slept with Mary since the honeymoon, if you want to know.” 

Relief washes over Sherlock’s face and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “Not once?” he asks, sounding horribly uncertain. “I thought – there were bound to be – feelings about your return, about – ” He stops short of mentioning the baby yet again. 

John shakes his head. “I told her, back at your parents’ place, that I was still angry with her and that I wouldn’t stop being angry for a long time. Honestly, it never even really came up. She didn’t try to make anything of it the first night back and neither did I, and after that it just seemed to be understood. She’s also very pregnant,” he adds, deciding to just say it directly. “Maybe she didn’t want to.” 

Sherlock looks like he’s thinking something about this, but doesn’t say it. Instead he reaches up to cradle John’s jaw with one strong, delicate hand. “But while you were sleeping… did you hold her?” The wistfulness is there in spades now, unrestrained, unchecked, and John feels his heart turn to molten lava. He’s never seen Sherlock open and vulnerable to this degree before. 

He has to be honest. “She’s always liked holding onto me somehow, holding my wrist or holding me down. There was a bit of that, but all on her side. And regardless, it’s nothing to the way I’m going to hold you all night tonight.” 

Sherlock searches his eyes, unsmiling, then says his name.

John closes the distance between their faces at once, kissing Sherlock for a long, long moment, trying to tell him silently, with all his strength, exactly how much Sherlock means to him. He’s half-hard by the time it winds down, but his belly is rumbling and gnawing at itself by this point. He kisses Sherlock one more time, then reluctantly releases him and disentangles himself. “I’m starving,” he says frankly. “Are you hungry?” 

Sherlock nods, his tongue touching his lower lip. “John – ”

“Yeah?” John leans forward to open the first bag, taking out a box of rice and another of honeyed chicken with sesame, one of their long-time favourites. 

“This morning I thought I was going to Serbia to die,” Sherlock says quietly. John stops fussing with the food and looks back at him. Sherlock takes his hand and twines their fingers together. “That I am about to eat dinner from our favourite Chinese with you, like _this_ – it’s difficult to actually process. That this is real.”

John leans over and kisses him for a long minute, his eyes closed, just his mouth on Sherlock’s. “It’s real,” he says after, looking into Sherlock’s deep-blue eyes. “I know. I feel the same way. I thought you were leaving me behind again. I thought I was losing you again. And on the plane, when your brother said it was an overdose – Sherlock – ”

“It wasn’t,” Sherlock says again. “And you haven’t lost me. I’m here.”

“So am I,” John tells him, and this time Sherlock is the one to close the space between them to kiss him again, their lips parting this time, and John feels as though he could die from the sheer amount of emotion blazing through his body and being. 

*** 

They get to dinner eventually, not leaving the sofa. There are wooden chopsticks in the bag and they eat directly from the containers, hungrily and not stinting themselves. They reminisce about the days when they lived here together, reliving certain memories from their newfound knowledge of one another, and eventually they put everything away and go to bed. John’s old toothbrush is still in the cup next to Sherlock’s, never removed, as though he never left. Their eyes meet in the bathroom mirror as they brush their teeth together and John’s gut twists with the yearning to just stay here and never leave again, to forget about Mary and the marriage that should never have taken place altogether. His entire being feels the burn of want still kindled, just waiting for the moment when he can allow it to blaze up in full force again.

Sherlock goes into the bedroom to give him the chance to use the toilet in private, not that John would have objected to him staying, and he notes that his partial stiffy never did go fully away. Round two was before their nap and it seems ridiculous to him that he’s still so hungry for it, for Sherlock, but the fire is in his very bones and heart. He dries his hands and goes into the bedroom to find Sherlock lying naked in the centre of the bed with his arms folded serenely on the pillows, his cock jutting obscenely upward in undisguised desire and John’s entire body blooms with heat. Their eyes meet and Sherlock almost smirks, seeing his face, and that makes it even worse, somehow, his own cock practically ripping the front of his jeans open, trapped painfully within. John gets his clothes off in about two seconds flat, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s incredibly beautiful form for an instant, the pull to join their flesh together again so strong he feels as though he’s not even in control of his own limbs as they propel him over to Sherlock. He crawls across the bed and onto Sherlock, into his arms, and it’s like becoming whole again, despite not having had this for more than about twelve hours at most. He thinks again fleetingly of all the time they wasted, and how much less complicated this would have been had they only figured it out sooner. Never mind that now, he tells himself. His mouth is on Sherlock’s, their arms around each other, cocks rubbing together, and it strikes him that it already feels completely natural, as though his body was made to go with this body, just as their minds were made to complement one another’s, their personalities made to fill in the spaces in each other. There is nothing and no one that could ever compete with this. 

Sherlock is moaning into his mouth, his fingers gripping John’s arse as they twist and thrust against each other. “What do you want?” John asks, transferring his mouth to Sherlock’s throat. “I’m up for anything – anything you want.” He shifts just low enough to plant his mouth on Sherlock’s left nipple, his tongue massaging it, and he’s rewarded by Sherlock shivering violently, his hands in John’s hair. 

“I want you inside me again,” he says, his voice thick with arousal and low enough to curl around John’s cock like smoke. 

John looks up at him. “You sure?” he asks. “It wasn’t that long ago since earlier. I thought you might be a bit sore?” 

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, though he doesn’t deny it directly. “Worth it. Please, John. That’s what I want the most.” 

John slides back up to put their mouths together again, his cock throbbing at the very notion. “All right,” he breathes onto Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him again, then again. “How would you like it?” 

“Exactly like this,” Sherlock says. “Like before.”

“I’ll need to – ”

“Here.” Somehow Sherlock has a tube of lube in his hand, pressing it into his, and John takes it from him and sits up. Sherlock watches with him deal with it, then says, his eyes on John’s fingers, “I want you more than I knew it was possible to want someone else. Even now, after it’s already started. It just keeps growing.”

John finds his eyes, smiling despite himself. “I know. I feel exactly the same way.” 

Sherlock’s return smile is almost shy. “I didn’t know I could feel this much, even though I knew how I felt before. I didn’t know it could – deepen, expand. Exponentially.” 

John’s heart expands almost painfully in his chest. “I love you,” he says, his throat tight, because it’s the only thing he can possibly say to that. He spreads himself out over Sherlock again, his lips and tongue finding Sherlock’s as his fingers find their way into the dark heat of him at the same time, probing subtly for damage, for torn flesh. Sherlock is still slightly relaxed from earlier, but it was the first time and it was hours ago. In John’s own extremely limited experience, it seems to him that more stretching would be a good idea, just to be on the safe side. He’s determined to make it enjoyable at the same time, though, so he starts slowly, just his middle finger slipping in and out as they kiss, and Sherlock makes a sound of decided approval, low in his throat. John moves his mouth to his throat, then down his chest, keeping the rhythm of his finger steady. Sherlock’s cock bumps wetly into his chin and he wraps his lips around it and sucks, his erection rubbing itself against the sheets at the same time. Sherlock moans loudly, flinging his forearm across his face, and John is secretly pleased by this. He gets a second finger into Sherlock and licks his quivering balls, generous with his tongue, lipping at them gently and Sherlock’s legs twitch and move helplessly, unable to keep himself still. John slides his lips along the hard shaft of Sherlock’s erection and reaches up to roll his right nipple between his fingers, his left ones still plunging into Sherlock, and takes the head of the leaking cock in front of him back into his mouth. He thinks for a moment that he would be completely content to just keep doing this, spend all of his focus on Sherlock. Would Sherlock like it if he suggested this? (Would he think that John didn’t want to have sex again, the full-on version? Take it as an evasion?) John decides that he would rather do anything whatsoever to avoid hurting Sherlock again. They can do this another time, then, because by God, there _will_ be other times. 

Sherlock is gasping, his entire body shaking with need, his cock as hard as marble in John’s mouth. “John – please – it’s – I’m ready!” 

John groans despite himself, his cock harder than anything. “Okay,” he says, his voice gone husky with breath and urgency. He doesn’t ask for a confirmation; he can feel for himself that Sherlock is open enough for him. His cock is so hard that he barely even needs to guide it into place. He slides up Sherlock’s body and it finds its own way into position, already trying to push its way inside like a heat-seeking missile. John’s eyes close involuntarily as he sinks into Sherlock’s tightness again, his weight braced on both hands, and Sherlock’s come up to grip his triceps as John enters him. They’re both breathing hard and when their eyes meet, the intensity of the contact makes John’s cock throb within Sherlock. Somehow this feels even more real than the first time, on the sofa. It isn’t just a wistful, mostly-repressed fantasy any more, shoved aside and firmly denied in reminders of impossibility, of not being the done thing, of not even being an option. It’s not a secret between them any more and never will be again. They’re a proper couple, two people in bed together, and they’re having sex. Proper sex. He’s inside Sherlock, skin-to-skin, not even a thin layer of latex to separate them, which is more than John has ever granted to anyone since before medical school. He meant it when he told Mary the first time they did it that he just always used condoms, just in case, and she hadn’t argued. On the honeymoon she’d brought it up and he’d shrugged and said he’d also meant it as contraception, but clearly something had failed. He’d never expressed his doubts later, after she’d shot Sherlock. Whether she’d been trying to get pregnant in order to deepen her hold on him. He’d thought about her pricking holes in the condoms in the box in the loo at the flat, but by then he was staying first at the hospital and then at Baker Street with Sherlock, looking after him, and couldn’t check. He’d forgotten to look after Christmas, going back. He’d had himself tested not longer after the shot, just in case. She’d said on the honeymoon that since she was pregnant, they might as well stop using them, and John had managed to avoid giving a direct answer. Maybe he’d already known then that he’d never craved a connection this deep with anyone else. 

He pulls himself out of his head, becoming more aware of the pulse thudding in his heart and his cock, the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes on his. He can feel their connection in every part of himself, physical and emotional, feel every single cell of his own that’s touching one of Sherlock’s, can feel the places where it’s neither him nor Sherlock but _them_ , one being fused together. He’s moving at a regular pace, Sherlock trembling within the pillars of his arms, his fingers curled around them, and John feels as though Sherlock can see directly into his soul. He pushes every other unwelcome thought from his head, of broken condoms and unexpected (unwanted) pregnancies and Mary out of his head. There is only this right now: only them. 

The pleasure is building with the titanic force behind it, labouring his breathing and increasing his thrusting to a frantic pace, and Sherlock’s voice is rough with wordless agreement, rising in a crescendo of need. John can hear his own moans coming perilously close to wails, his arse clenching and clenching as he pumps himself into Sherlock and then Sherlock’s hands are on it, hard, and John has the singular, desperate thought that if Sherlock doesn’t come within the next ten seconds or so, he’s going to get there first. He reaches for Sherlock’s cock and strokes it from root to tip, hard and fast, and it takes fewer than seven full strokes before Sherlock’s voice grows even louder and then he’s coming, his entire body convulsing, clamping around John’s cock. That does it – he gives one last, hard thrust and his body jams up against Sherlock’s arse and he feels himself spurting and spurting, coming like a fire hose within Sherlock. Another gut-deep moan wrenches itself from his throat and the wetness comes again, soaking Sherlock from the inside out. 

His right hand is wet and sticky with Sherlock’s release, though most of it is on Sherlock’s abdomen. John doesn’t care about either, slumping forward onto Sherlock and feeling both their chests heaving together as they pant. Sherlock’s breath is hot on his neck, his arms coming around John’s back and holding him as their legs relax and tangle together. Sherlock’s are still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm, and after a moment John realises that his are, too. An overwhelming sense of rightness comes over John, of intense belonging that he’s never felt with anyone else before. His girlfriends, including Mary, have always accused him of not letting them in, but in Sherlock’s case it’s not even a question of allowing him entrance – Sherlock is already there within him, within his very blood and bones and tissues. His heart is pounding and he raises his head. “I am yours, Sherlock,” he says, his voice low and very serious. “Completely yours.” 

He feels a shiver go through Sherlock’s body, those incredible, aquamarine eyes opening and finding his. “And I am yours,” he says in response. “Everything that I am belongs to you.” 

A streak of something bright and hot and exhilarating plunges through John’s being, leaving him wordless and breathless both, something that can only be expressed physically, so he gathers Sherlock into his arms and kisses him again and again and again, feeling so much and so intensely that he thinks it could almost break him, if it weren’t already rebuilding him from the foundations of his very being. 

*** 

John doesn’t know what it is that wakes him. Some noise, perhaps, something outside. An ambulance, a car alarm. The roar of a taxi taking the corner onto Marylebone too sharply. Either way, his eyes open suddenly in the dark of the room. He has no idea what time it is. He is lying on his front, half-draped over Sherlock, the blankets just barely covering his arse. His left arm is stretched out across Sherlock’s chest, his hand dangling loosely, his left leg between Sherlock’s. Some instinct prickles on his bare skin and in the ghostly echo of a bullet tearing through his left shoulder years ago and makes him twist around suddenly to look behind him. 

There is a form standing at the foot of the bed, dark-clad and half lost in the shadows. The only thing visible is the hands, ungloved and twined backwards together, and John’s chest freezes. “Mary?” he croaks, his voice dry and heavy with sleep. The figure does not move and he turns to Sherlock, shaking him, a hand on his chest. “Sherlock – ” It’s urgent, and with distaste John realises that he is afraid. “Sherlock, wake up!” 

Sherlock makes a sleepy sound and stirs, his lips moving. “John…” His eyes open and find his, blinking. “What is it?” 

John looks back again, but there is nothing and no one there. He opens his mouth to speak, but – “She was just here,” he says tensely. He sits up and pushes the blankets back. “Sherlock – ”

Sherlock sounds instantly more alert. “Who? Who was here?” 

John gets out of bed in lieu of answering. The bedroom door is still closed (did they close it earlier? They came in from the loo and he can’t remember). He puts his hand on the doorknob and Sherlock stops him. 

“John, no – wait – !” In a flash, he is there, just over John’s shoulder. “Are you positive?” he asks, lowering his voice. 

“I – think so,” John says jerkily. “I can’t swear to it, but – I thought so, yes.” 

Sherlock plucks a dressing gown from the hooks on the back of the door from over his shoulder and gives it to him before taking another for himself. “Then let’s go see,” he says, moving away, and when he comes back, John notes that he’s got his Browning in hand. He holds his hand out for it and Sherlock gives it to him without argument. “Let’s go take a look.” 

John nods and opens the bedroom door. The flat is in darkness, as they left it, only a small lamp on in the sitting room. They explore every room cautiously, including John’s old room upstairs and the front entrance way, though not the basement. Sherlock points out that it’s close to four in the morning as they pass through the kitchen. They go back into the bedroom and close all the doors again. “Perhaps you were dreaming,” Sherlock suggests, pulling the dressing gown from his arms. 

John lets him take it, frowning and feeling distinctly uneasy. “I’ve never been unable to tell the difference between being awake and dreaming before,” he points out. 

“But you do dream, and intensely,” Sherlock says. “I haven’t forgotten your predisposition to nightmares.” 

They get back into bed, John feeling both foolish and un-reassured. “Maybe,” he says dubiously. “I was dreaming about Mary, come to think of it. But not like that.” 

Sherlock shifts down, pulling the blankets up around their shoulders. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, curled on his side facing him. 

John takes his hand and holds it, sliding his fingers between Sherlock’s longer ones. “It wasn’t really a solid narrative. Just bits and pieces, though Leinster Gardens kept coming back. And that way she stands sometimes, with her hands linked backwards.” 

Sherlock’s shiver is so slight that John almost misses it. “What was she wearing in the dream?” 

John shakes his head. “I can’t remember. Nothing particularly memorable, I guess.” 

“Was she pregnant?” Sherlock asks, sounding curious. 

John thinks hard. “Actually… now that you mention it, I don’t think she was.” 

Sherlock doesn’t smile. “When I was on the plane, in my mind palace… I had a very lucid imagining of you and I solving a case in Victorian times, and Mary was there, too. She wasn’t pregnant in any of the parts that I imagined, either. I didn’t think much of it until earlier, but it’s interesting that your dreams don’t show her as pregnant, either.”

John feels his eyebrows lift. “What are you saying?” he asks, both confusion and disbelief creeping into his voice. “You think she’s – what, faking the pregnancy?” It sounds ridiculous, and yet the instant the words leave his mouth, it feels instinctively true. Certain things fall into place. There was never any morning sickness, at least not on or before the honeymoon. He supposes there could have been afterward, while he was drifting between empty Baker Street and the Royal London, looking after Sherlock. He missed so much of it – doctor’s appointments, ultrasounds, cravings, mood swings. Feeling the baby move for the first time. Discussing names. Setting up rooms. All things he’s given himself as reasons why he has felt so little in connection with the apparently imminent arrival of his own child in about a month’s time. She showed him photos of an apparently recent ultrasound, but who even knows. He’d looked at them and tried to feel something, some connection with the shape in the photos. _A daughter_ , he’d told himself. _I’m going to have a little girl. I’m going to be a father._ But the words had never felt real, never felt as though he were talking about himself, that those words had anything to do with him. Maybe that was why Mary hadn’t tried to initiate anything after he went back. 

Sherlock is watching him carefully, a bit of streetlight catching in his eyes and glittering. “What are you thinking?” he asks, his thumb rubbing over the back of John’s hand. 

John shakes his head again, trying to clear it. “It makes sense,” he says. “But how was she going to hide it? Get away with it? What do you suppose she’s planning to tell me if no baby arrives at the end of the month?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “No idea. You know how intelligent she is, John. I haven’t the first idea what she could be thinking in terms of execution. Of course I can see why she invented a pregnancy and gave me enough clues to incite me to believe in it. A child strengthens her ties to you, and perhaps she was always… concerned.” 

“If by ‘concerned’, you mean jealous, I think you could be right,” John says. “I mean, she was always so – enthusiastic about all of us spending time together on the surface, but other times she would rather insist on it just being her and I. And she shot you. That’s sort of a large clue right there.”

“True,” Sherlock concedes, not quite smiling. “Do you really think she was here tonight? If she was, why didn’t she say anything?” 

“I don’t know,” John says. “I wish we could know for sure.” 

“She’s too clever to have left any sign behind, but I’ll check in the morning,” Sherlock promises him. He disentangles his fingers and puts an arm around John’s back. “In the meantime, I seem to recall you having said something about holding me while we sleep tonight, and if this is to be our only night for the foreseeable future, let’s not waste any more of it.” 

John’s short laugh takes him by surprise. “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, unless she confronts me about it or something.” He gets himself closer to Sherlock and pulls him in tightly, his lips on Sherlock’s forehead. He still feels unsettled and uneasy, but the weight of Sherlock’s arm and the warmth of him, cocooned under the blankets next to him is already lulling him back toward sleep. He puts his mouth to Sherlock’s once, twice, lingering for a long moment, and when he finally falls asleep again, it’s with Sherlock’s soft, regular breathing warm on his forehead. 

*** 

To his own surprise, John finds that his grip hasn’t loosened all that much in sleep. Sherlock is already awake, though only just, and stretches in his arms like a cat, relaxed and heavy against John afterward, ducking in to find John’s mouth. They kiss for a long, very good moment, tongues stroking against each other’s, morning breath be damned, and Sherlock makes a deeply contented sound into his mouth. 

He explains when they come up for air. “I’ve never woken up with anyone like this,” he says, his arm curled around John’s back. “I thought I might find it odd, or – but I love it, actually.” 

John looks from one very blue eye to the other. “What did you think it might be like?” 

Sherlock shrugs a bit. “I don’t know. One doesn’t always look one’s best first thing and all that. But you don’t seem to mind terribly.” 

John smiles. “I don’t mind at all,” he assures Sherlock, his voice low and as seductive as it goes. “I love it. The intimacy of seeing you like this. Feeling you like this.” 

Sherlock exhales deeply. “I’m embarrassingly hard,” he admits, and John looks down between them. His own morning erection is quite stiff, too, but Sherlock wasn’t kidding – his is flat up against his belly, flushed dark and shiny with moisture already. 

“Oh my,” he says, his mouth suddenly filling with saliva. “What shall we do about that, then?” 

Sherlock makes a sound that sounds rather desperate. “Could we just – ” He raises himself gets on top of John, their cocks bumping together. He puts his mouth back on John’s and John makes a satisfied sound of his own, his hands going like magnets to Sherlock’s divine arse. “Is this all right?” Sherlock asks, rubbing against him, his words said half into John’s mouth. 

“Mm-hm.” John pats around for the lube until his hand finds it, shoved under the pillows, and it takes a moment to manoeuvre it around Sherlock’s back, but when he rubs it over both of them, Sherlock groans in a way that sounds like it came directly from his pelvis and he starts going faster. It’s not going to take long at this speed, John thinks, not that he minds at all. It’s been a _long_ time since he spent the night with anyone whose very presence kept his body on the edge of arousal at all times, and now that they’re doing this again in some form, his body would quite like to get there rather quickly. His hips are lifting from the bed to thrust against Sherlock in counterpoint, the pleasure collecting deep within his gut and balls and bone marrow. 

Suddenly Sherlock’s back stiffens and he stops moving. His balls and cock twitch and then he comes without warning over John’s belly, his entire face screwed up as the orgasm grips him, pulsing out of him in hot bursts, and the sight of it is so arousing that John nearly loses it right then and there, too. Sherlock is still coming and John can’t help himself – he takes Sherlock by the upper arms and turns them over, rutting against his wet cock, thrusting as hard as he can, the pleasure demanding release within him. Sherlock puts both hands on his arse and squeezes, _hard_ , and John loses it with a shout, his release spraying out of him and splashing Sherlock’s warm skin with complete abandon, utter lack of control. It shudders through him again, his cock still touching Sherlock’s and sputtering out drops of come. As they soften, their cocks pool together into a warmth of spent flesh. John is panting against Sherlock’s jaw, Sherlock’s finger tips lazy on his back. 

“Fuck,” John says, heartfelt. “That was one of the best I’ve ever had.” 

“Me too,” Sherlock says, a smirk in his voice, and John laughs. 

“God,” he says into Sherlock’s neck. “How the hell am I supposed to leave today? Work and do regular things? It’s going to wreck me, you know.” 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, thinking. One hand is in John’s hair now, fingers sliding through it, his arms incredibly tender. “As it will me,” he says after a bit. “But it must be done.” 

“I know, but – ”

Sherlock interrupts him gently. “Mary _must not_ find out about this. You know how important that is. You must keep the cover of your marriage in place. And I need to find Moriarty. Confirm who and what form he has taken this time.”

John lifts his face. “Do you think they’re related?” he asks directly. 

Sherlock’s eyes skitter away from his. “Possibly,” he says. “I don’t know yet. But whatever you do, don’t underestimate Mary’s intelligence.” 

“I won’t,” John says. “But you’re the more intelligent one, Sherlock. I’ve never doubted that.” 

“Haven’t you? I have,” Sherlock tells him, his voice a bit dry. He puts his hands on John’s face and draws him down to kiss him again, small kisses, over and over again until John can’t help himself and lingers longer, finding Sherlock’s tongue again. 

“I love you,” he says again, after. He strokes the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead, his curls soft and messy and still beautiful. “And I’m greedy for more. I don’t want to leave, but since I have to, I will. But I want to know how long I’ll have to wait before I can see you again, like this. Alone, so that we can be this.” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock tells him honestly. “But I want that, too.” He hesitates. “I want to ask you not to – with Mary, to not – but I also don’t want to compromise you. It may be that you have to. And it may be that you find that you want to,” he adds, a shadow crossing his brow. 

“Never,” John swears. “I’m not going to have sex with Mary again, Sherlock. You have my word. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. Not at all. I doubt I could even get it up for her, to be honest.” 

“You could, if the circumstances were right,” Sherlock says. He sighs. “You may find yourself more confused once we’re not together. Mary is quite – persuasive.” 

“Manipulative, you mean,” John counters, frowning at him. 

Sherlock doesn’t contradict him. “Manipulative,” he agrees. 

“I’m not going to change my mind, Sherlock,” John tells him firmly. “I love you. I’ve loved you for a very long time. I just never thought this was in the cards, that’s all. And now that we’ve finally got ourselves sorted, there is nothing that could make me think that anything would be worth giving this up for. I mean that. Nothing, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock studies his face, listening with a focus so intense John can all but feel it searching every inch of his mind and soul. Then he nods. “I love you, too,” he says, the words slightly hoarse. “Kiss me – please – ”

John doesn’t make him wait. They kiss again, still naked and spent, and he wonders again how the hell he can possibly function like a normal person after having had this. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, but the very intensity of it, the speed at which it finally came together and coalesced, is insane. (Is it, though, he wonders. God knows it certainly took them long enough to arrive at this point.) Sherlock is right, of course – he has to go back to Mary today, with his lies seamlessly practised and unflinching. While missing Sherlock with every fibre of his being. It’s not going to be easy. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

 

Mary seems absolutely normal to him when he gets back to the flat. It’s a Sunday, so he’s not expected at the clinic, though his presence there has been extremely sporadic over the past several months, anyway. Mary was sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown and slippers, sipping coffee and reading the paper. She’d looked up as he came in and smiled. 

“Morning,” she’d said. “You’re back sooner than I thought!” 

John had frowned a little and said, “I texted from Baker Street, said I was coming home. Didn’t you get that?” 

“Oh, sure. I just didn’t know when exactly.” Mary had taken another sip of coffee. “There’s coffee if you want it. Have you eaten breakfast?” 

“Yeah.” He’d taken off his coat and shoes and scarf and spoke as he hung the coat in the front closet. “Had to make Sherlock eat something. You know how it is.” 

“Of course.” Mary had sounded her normal mix of understanding and amused. “How is he? You got him stabilised all right?” 

John had fought the urge to clear his throat, which Sherlock said was always a dead giveaway. “Yup,” he’d said, fairly nonchalantly. Perfect. “Found his stash and got rid of it, too, so hopefully there won’t be any more of this in the near future.” 

Mary had made a bit of a sceptical sound, still coloured with amusement to show what she thought of that, and turned a page of the newspaper. “Good luck with that.” 

_Watch for inconsistencies_ , Sherlock had told him. _You’re a doctor. Look for the symptoms. You know her better than I do._ John had snorted a little at that, but it is true. He might not know Mary’s real name or anything about her background other than the fact that she’s a killer for hire, but he knows her face, her mannerisms, her body. He’s been inside her, knows what she feels like, even if it makes him want to shudder now. It feels like a completely different life, the one he’s led with Mary. A mere skimming along the surface. _Don’t think about me,_ Sherlock had added soberly, his hands on John’s shoulders. _Your face is so expressive._ He didn’t remind John that he’d deliberately kept him in the dark about the fact of his survival specifically because of that, but John had remembered, feeling it twist in his gut like a knife. But then Sherlock had added, softer, _It’s one of the things I love best about you_ , his lips in John’s hair, and somehow things had been all right again after that. 

He’d gone to organise himself a cup of coffee, then sat down across from her, asking what she was planning for the day. 

“I thought I might do a little shopping,” Mary had told him. “Lisa’s coming in from Oxford and she phoned and asked if I wanted to tag along. I have a few things to pick up.” 

“Oh,” John had said, his brows lifting. “Baby things?” 

Mary’s face hadn’t moved a muscle. “I think we have most of what we need there, but one never knows.” 

He’d scanned her face as closely as possible without making it look obvious, then stirred his coffee and drunk a bit of it. It was too strong, like usual, and he’d left a lot of room for milk but even so, it was bitter on his tongue. “All right,” he’d said blandly. 

“And you?” she’d asked, turning another page. “Any plans?” 

“No, not much, unless Sherlock figures something out with the Moriarty case.” He’d watched her subtly on that, too, but Mary’s face didn’t so much as flicker.

“Ah. I imagine Mycroft is working on that, too.” 

“Probably, yes.” John had showered at Baker Street, with Sherlock, both of them careful to remove any and all evidence of their activities from his body. There weren’t any particularly visible marks, no tooth marks or broken skin. The occasional reddish mark where a finger or two had gripped a little too hard, but nothing remarkable or noticeably specific to sex. Without having the need to shower as a reason to leave the table, John had pulled one of the other papers toward himself and started paging through it. It was like being on parade rest, really. 

Mary is out now. Lisa was one of her other bridesmaids. Knowing as he does now that Mary only befriended Janine to gain access to Magnussen, he cannot imagine how she met Lisa. There was a story there, friend from uni or some such thing, but this is certainly false, as they have established that Mary has been in the UK for less than ten years at the very most. Who knows, then. He isn’t going to ask. Instead, John spends the day checking his email, doing a bit of light cleaning, a load of laundry (kitchen and bathroom towels), and generally trying not to behave suspiciously, just in case. He and Sherlock agreed not to text each other more than necessary, and of course with nothing incriminating. 

A little past three, the doorbell rings. John goes to investigate, curious, not expecting anyone. It’s a university-age young man wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard and wanting earnestly to gain John’s signature on some petition or other. John listens for a bit, mostly bored and trying to find a polite time to insert a refusal when the student presses a leaflet into his hand. 

“If you’ll just look on the back there, that’s our number,” the student babbles, pointing toward the bottom, and John sees it: there is a tiny handwritten message there. It reads simply _Caffè Nero on the corner, 10 minutes_. 

John peers at it. “That’s the email of your group, there?” he asks, pointing at nothing in particular. 

“Yes! So if you decide you’d like to donate or get involved, that would be terrific!” The student closes his pen and adjusts his hat. “Have a nice day, sir!” 

“You too,” John says, closing the door. He folds the leaflet and puts it in his shirt pocket, not wanting to throw it away here. He thinks, then goes into the kitchen and writes Mary a short note, just in case she comes back earlier than he thought. _Just popped out to get some air_ , he writes, and leaves the pen beside the note. He knows which Caffè Nero the leaflet means; there aren’t all that many options for shops, restaurants, or cafés out in the suburbs here. He puts on his coat, wondering what this is about. It’s not a long walk to the café and he arrives almost precisely ten minutes after having received the message. He goes inside and looks around and sees no one that he knows. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. There’s a phone number listed with no name. The text reads: _Buy a coffee, Dr Watson_. 

John sighs. Mycroft. Typical. He supposes he has no choice. He goes to the counter and orders a small latte when he reaches the front of the queue. When the barista gives it to him at the far end of the counter, he also slides a plain brown envelope across the counter with a key to the gent’s. The envelope says _Open in private_. Another hoop to jump through. John mutters his thanks and takes the key, coffee, and envelope all into the loo. Once the door is closed and locked, he opens the envelope. There is a small, old-fashioned flip phone inside, the sort where you have to text by using the number pad. It’s powered on and when he opens it, there are two unread text messages waiting. The first says: 

_Use this to contact us, Dr Watson._  
_It goes without saying that you would_  
_do well to keep it out of sight._

Mycroft again. John clicks to the next message. 

_Sorry, John. Mycroft thought it best_  
_for you to have a back-up. I’ll use_  
_this phone for anything sensitive._  
_I love you. –S_

John feels his chest tighten. Just seeing the words in writing seems to confirm that the entire past twenty-four wasn’t just a dream. This is real, what they have. He types back: _Okay. I love you, too._ He thinks for a moment, then stows the phone in his underwear, down around his balls. Anywhere else and Mary would feel it on him, should she decide to hug him, touch him, her fingers deftly feeling for anything that doesn’t belong. For the sake of anyone listening outside, he flushes the toilet and briefly washes his hands before exiting, the envelope buried beneath the paper towels in the bin. He returns the key to the counter and leaves with the coffee. Instead of returning directly to the flat, he decides to swing by the grocery shop and pick up a few things. Anything to prolong the moment of going back to the stifling silence of the flat, or worse, the person he shares it with. 

*** 

That night, Mary comes to stand in the doorway of the loo as he’s brushing his teeth. The flip phone is stowed inside a sock ball in the toe of his smelly old trainers which are inside a gym bag deep in the back of the closet. He plans to keep it on his person the rest of the time, so long as he isn’t showering or sleeping. He carefully turns his thoughts from it, bending to spit and rinsing the toothpaste from his mouth. He rinses the toothbrush and puts it back in the cupboard, then gives Mary a short smile in the mirror before turning around. 

“Come to bed,” she says, her large eyes round and unsmiling, a bit sad. 

He goes to her, puts his hands on her sides, subtly trying to detect anything other than her skin there, but he can’t quite tell through the fabric of the nightgown she’s wearing, which is polyester and slippery. She turns her face up a little, and John kisses her briefly on the forehead, silently denying her anything more. He’s held her hand, though never initiated it. He’s put an arm around her shoulders, but nothing more. Anything else would be too much – trebly so now. 

Her hands are on his shoulders and her eyes are definitely sad and almost puzzled, as though she can’t quite work out why he should be upset with her. “Still?” she asks, her mouth twisting a little. 

John exhales and lifts his chin, trying to get distance from her, though he doesn’t pull his hands away. “I told you it would take me awhile,” he says quietly, which was always true. “And after yesterday – I almost lost him again, Mary. And after you – ” He stops, swallowing, and this isn’t feigned, either. 

Mary sighs, too. “I suppose I should just be glad you came home,” she says, and moves away from him to get into bed. 

John wonders if he should say something else, but decides to leave it. He goes to the other side and gets in, his back to her. He reaches and switches out the lamp. “I still don’t see why it was necessary,” he says tightly, into the darkness. “That was never clear to me. Why Sherlock, instead of Magnussen? You never did explain.” 

Behind him, Mary is silent for so long that John wonders if she is going to respond at all. The image of her, mostly hidden in the shadows standing at the foot of Sherlock’s bed in the middle of the night comes unbidden to his mind. (Was she really there, or wasn’t she? If she was, this entire conversation is nothing more than a ruse, anyway. But if she was, then why hasn’t she said anything?) Finally she responds with another question, a rhetorical one. “Do you really want to discuss this, John? I thought you preferred to ignore all of that. My past. The shot. My reasons.” 

The last is a bit of a shot, but John suddenly decides that he doesn’t want to hear her try to rationalise her decision to take Sherlock from his life a second time. Not now, when every particle of him is conscious of every inch of distance between himself and Sherlock, on the other side of the city, alone in the bed they so thoroughly debauched yesterday and this morning. It hurts. He’s never felt such a gnawing hunger for anyone else before. “No,” he says. “You’re right. It’s easier if we don’t.” He pauses, then adds, “Easier to move on from it.” 

Mary reaches out and touches him and he flinches, closing his eyes and cursing himself. She pretends not to notice this. “Then take your time, darling,” she says, her voice warm and a bit tremulous. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.” 

John thinks of the baby and wonders if she really is carrying one, how all that’s going to play out. There is so much he cannot say. “Okay,” he says eventually, his voice thick. 

They don’t speak any more after that. John waits until Mary is snoring lightly before finally allowing himself, exhausted after his short and interrupted night, to drop off to sleep. 

*** 

In the morning, Mary is already awake when John emerges into the kitchen after his shower. He’s dressed, the flip phone lodged weirdly in the seam of his crotch and it almost feels ridiculous, like he’s playing at being a Cold War spy or some such thing. Everything seems so normal on the surface. Mary is frying eggs and tomatoes and he can smell bread toasting in the toaster. The January sun is coming in through the window and it feels much like many of his mornings before the wedding, before everything went to hell. Only Mary won’t be joining him at the clinic since she’s on maternity leave, but in most other respects it’s more or less the same. She gives the things in the frying pan a prod with a spatula, then turns around and sets a tall glass down beside his plate and another one by her own. It’s filled with a frothy pinkish concoction. 

John surveys it. “What’s this?” he asks. 

“A smoothie,” Mary informs him. “I got into a bit of a smoothie kick while you were away and thought I’d keep it up. It’s a good way to get in a lot of nutrients that I need these days, and I thought you might like one. I was making one anyway, so… it’s strawberry banana, with yoghurt and orange juice.” 

“Sounds good,” John says. She pronounces yoghurt the American way, he notices, and refrains from commenting on it. Normally her accent is quite good, very consistent with few slips. He wonders if Sherlock noticed before the shooting. Probably, he realises now. Sherlock probably always saw that there were inconsistencies, things that didn’t fit, but refrained from saying so for his sake. His chest burns a little. 

“Oh – I forgot,” Mary says. She opens a drawer and takes out a wide straw and gives it to him. “Here. That should make it easier to drink.” 

“Thanks,” John says, and sips at it. It’s good, not too sweet. He doesn’t like yoghurt but the flavour isn’t too strong, balancing well with the sweetness of the fruit. At the counter, Mary is setting out plates, preparing to serve them both directly from the pan. “Do you need a hand?” he asks, trying for politeness. 

“No, I’m fine,” she says. “You just relax and drink your smoothie.” 

John shrugs inwardly and picks up his glass to sip again. Perhaps it’s not the most manly drink around, he thinks, but who says men can’t enjoy smoothies? He takes a longer sip and stops, feeling something sharp in his mouth. He makes a disturbed sound and doesn’t swallow his mouthful, getting up to spit it into the sink instead. At the same time he reaches into his mouth and withdraws a slender shard of glass about one inch long. There is blood on his fingers from the inside of his mouth. He coughs and spits and sees more blood mixed in with the drink. 

“John – are you okay? What’s going on?” Mary is asking, sounding upset. “Did you choke?” 

She thumps him on the back and John shakes his head, spitting again, checking his mouth gingerly with his tongue for any other glass shards or fragments. “There was a piece of glass in my smoothie,” he says, holding up the shard. 

Mary’s hands fly up to her face. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry, John! I broke a glass the other day and it must have – I thought I had got all the pieces, but I must have missed it somehow. I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” 

Her big blue eyes are cringing with worry and she looks so stricken that John feels he should reassure her. “I’m fine,” he says, a bit gruffly. “Cut the inside of my mouth a bit. I’m just glad I didn’t swallow it.” He glances at her, then adds, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s hard to clean up glass. I know how it gets everywhere. I’ll be fine.” He turns on the tap and rinses out the sink, but keeps the glass shard, rinsing the blood from it. It’s only about three millimetres thick, small enough to fit easily up his straw, yet large and sharp enough to have sliced his oesophagus open on its way down. For a moment he feels sick, but is mindful to conceal it from Mary, and glad that he’s holding the glass in his left hand. _You have a habit of clenching and releasing your left hand when you’re experiencing stress,_ Sherlock told him. _Be careful of that. Mary will certainly have noticed by now. If you’re not certain you can remember, try to keep hold of something in your left hand when things become difficult._

“Throw that away,” Mary tells him, meaning the glass. “Or put it down the drain. Best get it where it can’t hurt either of us any more.” 

“Drain it is,” John says. “Otherwise it could cut through a plastic bag.” He turns on the water again, but places the glass chip in the corner of the sink away from the spray, stuck closely to the metal and all but invisible unless one knew where to look. He makes a slight show of rinsing off his hands and drying them again afterward. 

Mary is watching him anxiously. “How bad is the cut?” she asks. “Should I have a look?” 

John probes at it with his tongue. “It’s fine, ish,” he says. “Maybe I’ll skip breakfast, though. Don’t want anything hot on it just now.” 

Mary’s eyes fill suddenly with tears. “I’m sorry, John. I just – wanted to make you something nice. Start your day off well. I didn’t mean – ”

“It’s all right,” John tells her. He goes round to her side of the table and drops a kiss somewhere in the air just over her head. “Don’t dwell on it. It was an accident. I should get going, though.” 

Mary puts her hand over the one he laid on her shoulder and John tolerates it for as long as he can stand before pulling away. “Have a better rest of the day,” she tells him forlornly. “I’ll give the kitchen a good clean. Make sure there aren’t any more pieces poking about.” 

“Nonsense. You take it easy,” John tells her sternly, going to his shoes and pulling them on. “You’re eight months pregnant. You should be mostly sitting around with your feet up, drinking tea.” 

She musters a small smile. “Yes, dear,” she quips, her chin crunching up in a remorseful smile, and again, it feels just the way it used to, at least on the surface. 

But everything has changed now, and John wouldn’t change it back for the world. “See you later,” he says with a forced smile, and quits the flat with relief. 

*** 

He texts Sherlock with his regular phone that afternoon. _Any progress on the Moriarty case?_

Sherlock texts back within minutes. _Some, yes. Perhaps you could come by tomorrow at some point? After work if you’re at the clinic._

John considers. _I can ask if they can spare me, if it’s pressing._

Sherlock responds by sending him a link to a news site. The headline is about a minor explosion in North London, attributed to gang violence. A business card with the initials _J.M._ was found at the scene of the crime, singed at the edges and found in a heap of other semi-burned rubbish. _I’ll have a look at the crime scene this afternoon_ , Sherlock types a moment later. _After work will probably be fine, though._

 _All right._ John puts his phone away as the receptionist knocks and ushers in the next patient. 

When he gets home later, the kitchen is spotless from top to bottom, and the glass shard is gone. He supposes Mary could have cleaned quite thoroughly. It’s possible she didn’t even notice it. John says something jovially scolding along the lines of her resting and Mary dimples at him coquettishly and tells him that he can make supper, if he’s feeling guilty. John grumbles a little for show, then goes into the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to escape her probing eyes for a few minutes. This is how life is going to be for the foreseeable future. He thinks of Sherlock and the fact that he could avoid this by not deliberately engaging in an ongoing affair, but on the other hand, rationalisation or otherwise, the relationship with Mary is the one he now considers to be infidelity. Besides, the business with the glass chip changes things. Was that an accident, or wasn’t it? He’ll sort this all out eventually. They both will, he and Sherlock. Together. 

*** 

He texts Sherlock from the flip phone on his way from the clinic to Baker Street the next day, so anxious to see him that his nerves are practically popping through his skin. _I’m on my way. Brace yourself. I can’t be held responsible for my own behaviour._

Sherlock texts back immediately. _Consider me sufficiently warned. I’ll be waiting upstairs. Don’t say or do anything until we’re in the kitchen, though. Assume we’re being watched and overheard otherwise, and we’ll need to be quiet even in the kitchen. Hurry. I need to see you._

John frowns even as his heart soars. He puts the phone away in the inside pocket of his jacket, thinking that he’ll put it back in his underwear somewhere less conspicuous than on the bus, possibly. Besides, he’s counting on losing his underwear well before going back to Mary, anyway. On top of that, even if he weren’t in public, he’s already firming up a little and space in his pants is a limited commodity at the moment. He’s curious about the watched/overheard business, but he supposes Sherlock is quite a few steps ahead of him and doesn’t question it for a second. He drums his fingers impatiently for several minutes, then remembers that he could actually be watched even now and makes himself stop, breathing deeply. The same vigilance paces his steps as he walks quickly from the stop to the flat, trying the doorknob experimentally, though he knows it’s probably open. It is. He goes inside and locks every lock on the door behind him before going upstairs. He can hear strains of a violin concerto drifting down, something sweepy and dramatic and Romantic, possibly the Tchaikovsky, which has always been one of Sherlock’s favourites. It’s not too loud, just the right volume for having on in the background. Not suspiciously loud, John’s brain fills in. 

He makes himself sound calm and natural as he walks into the flat. “Sherlock?” 

“Just putting on the kettle,” Sherlock calls from the kitchen, then comes into view a moment later. He smiles in a perfunctory fashion. “Ah. John. Glad you could make it.”

He gestures at John’s chair and John looks at it and goes to it, burying his silent frustration. His entire being wants nothing more than to launch himself at Sherlock, but apparently they’re being watched. By who, is the question? Is this about ‘Moriarty’, or is it about Mary? Could she have actually snuck in here in the middle of the day to install surveillance? Wasn’t Sherlock here? John remembers the text on his regular phone, informing him of his planned absence for the afternoon and his gut clenches. “How are we feeling?” he asks solicitously, as one’s doctor/friend might after a supposed overdose only a few days earlier. 

Sherlock gives him a half-smile. “Fine,” he says. “Still clean. You needn’t worry.” 

“Sorry. You know I have to ask,” John says, a bit apologetic and hoping that Sherlock knows he’s only asking for the sake of the cover. 

Sherlock waves it away. He hasn’t sat down, leaning instead against the desk. He has changed from his outing back into pyjama pants and a loose t-shirt under his blue silk dressing gown, the one with the hole in the sleeve from when he shot through it. “Interesting crime scene,” he says. “Though there wasn’t anything particularly mysterious about it, apart from the business card.” 

“Yes, about that,” John says, trying to muster some interest and simultaneously keep his eyes from Sherlock’s body. “Did you get anything from the card?” 

In the kitchen the kettle boils and switches itself off. Sherlock pushes himself casually off the desk and goes toward it. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll show you while the tea steeps,” he says, his voice as casual as his movements, but there’s something in it nevertheless, some undertone, perhaps. 

John makes himself move slowly, getting out of his chair and following Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock pours water into the teapot, then goes to the far corner to the right of the fridge, as far from any of the other rooms as possible. He turns around and puts a finger to his lips in warning. John nods, then seizes his face and kisses him hard. Sherlock’s hands start on his face, too, then migrate to his back and arse, grabbing at him and touching as much of him as possible. Their mouths are open, consuming one another’s, and after a moment Sherlock reaches back and fumbles at the tap until the water is running at full speed to give them a little more sound cover. He’s hard, the flimsy material of his pyjamas not hiding it at all, and John’s partial erection went to full the instant their mouths touched again. It’s so hard to keep silent, fire roaring through his bones, but if the choice is doing this silently or not at all, there’s no choice. His hands are on Sherlock’s arse, their hips bumping as they rub together through their clothes. Sherlock’s hands are busy at his waist now, rapidly getting him unzipped before yanking everything down to John’s ankles and helping him step out of it. 

Sherlock’s eyes are on his, silently devouring him as John tears his shirt off, and Sherlock’s own clothes strip off much faster, kicked aside – though not too far, of course – and then they’re kissing again, frantic and hungry, tiny sounds forming in both their throats as they rub against each other. The height difference is a bit problematic, though, but after a moment, Sherlock turns around to lean against the counter, his knees placed well apart. He looks back at John and John gets it. He steps into the space, both hands on Sherlock’s arse, the silent question forming on his lips. Sherlock shakes his head. _I’m ready_ , he mouths, and _Go. Please._

John swallows down his groan and puts a hand on Sherlock’s hip, the other guiding himself into place and pushing. Sherlock didn’t make it up; he’s obviously prepared himself already, his hole slick with lube and warm, so warm – John shivers violently as he enters Sherlock, the tightness squeezing around his cock and feeling so good that he can’t breathe. Sherlock’s back is heaving, panting as silently as possible, and it feeds into his arousal directly, knowing that he wants this every bit as badly. The knowledge makes his cock even harder, sweat forming along his spine. When he’s fully inside, he reaches up to rub Sherlock’s nipples and chest and belly before letting his right hand dip down to caress Sherlock’s hard cock. Sherlock shudders and puts his hand over John’s, squeezing and linking their fingers together on him. He nods quickly, his eyes closed tightly, and John begins to move. He watches himself disappearing into the curves of Sherlock’s perfect arse and has to choke back another moan. He’s normally rather vocal during sex and this is difficult. It feels incredibly good, both being in Sherlock again and the hardness of Sherlock’s cock in his palm, particularly with those long fingers wrapped around his as they stroke him together. He uses his other hand to touch Sherlock as much as he possibly can, and when he puts his fingers on Sherlock’s full lower lip, Sherlock catches them and sucks them, reminding John of how talented he is with his mouth. He goes harder, the sweat collecting and streaking down his back now, his hand working Sherlock faster. He pulls at Sherlock’s hair with his left hand and feels it, the twitch in Sherlock’s cock. He jerks it hard and fast, Sherlock’s fingers gripping his but not trying to control it or direct him. A short, desperate sound leaves his mouth and in alarm, John takes his fingers from Sherlock’s hair and claps his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. Only then does he really give it to him, fucking him as hard as he can, his fist a blur on Sherlock’s flesh. 

Sherlock comes hard, the splash of it landing audibly on the lower cupboards, once, twice, then more of it ebbing out over John’s fingers as his breath bursts out against John’s palm in hot condensation, thrusting into his fist. When it’s past, John finally puts both hands on Sherlock’s hips and pounds into him – he’s almost there, just another few seconds and – it breaks over him like a dawning, a wash of pleasure so intense his stomach and lungs and spleen are all clenching, and then it roars out of him, the wet rush. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched against making any sound, though his breath escapes through his nose in violent gusts. His cock is still twitching and spurting within Sherlock, his hips still rocking into him, hungry for every instant of pleasure it can get from this. It’s only been since Saturday morning and it’s Tuesday late afternoon now, but it was still overdue, John thinks, his forehead hot and sweaty. The orgasm ebbs and he sags against Sherlock’s back, wrapping both arms around him, his face turned sideways on his back, eyes closed. Sherlock’s legs are shaking, and John reflects that it might have been difficult for them to have not given out completely. Although then they would have just had sex on the floor instead. He closes his eyes, his torso heaving in counterpoint with Sherlock’s. 

After a little, he straightens up and pulls out with reluctance. Sherlock turns off the cold tap in favour of the hot one now. He wets a clean dishcloth and uses it to dab at John’s sweaty face, leaning in to kiss him again. Without breaking the kiss, John takes it from him and does the same in return. They break apart, looking into each other’s eyes for a long minute. Sherlock smiles and John smiles back, his heart still thumping in his chest. Sherlock takes the cloth back to wipe his own release from his skin, then gives it back to John to clean himself. They dress themselves in silence and Sherlock goes to pour two half cups of extremely strong tea, leaving room for a lot of milk. He adds sugar to his cup and wanders back into the sitting room as though they were mid-conversation in the kitchen. “So I don’t think that’s going anywhere much,” he says casually. “Though I could be wrong. It’s happened rather a stunning amount recently.” 

John follows his lead, both in the conversation and the move to the sitting room. He sits down across from Sherlock in his chair, carrying his tea. “Nonsense. You’re still the best consulting detective in London.” 

“I’m the _only_ consulting detective in London,” Sherlock corrects him. “And the world, as far as I know. But you know what I mean.” 

John nods. “Listen – it’s not all that cold. I should get on home pretty soon, but would you be up for a short walk before I go? It’s just that I’ve been cooped up inside all day as it is. Need some air.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock sounds carefully surprised. “Well. All right, then. A turn through Regent’s Park, then, if you want.” 

“That’d be great.” John smiles at him, careful not to let it be too effusive, and they abandon the tea, which is nearly undrinkable. Sherlock was clever enough to only fill their cups halfway, making it look as though they already started drinking the tea in the kitchen. They put their coats on with nothing more than a bit of casual chitchat, then go downstairs and exit into the crisp night air. Sherlock gives him a cautionary look and nods in the direction of the park, but walks close enough to him that their arms are touching through their coats, and John feels it keenly. Only once they’ve stepped onto the path of the outer loop does Sherlock finally speak. 

“Cameras,” he says without preamble. “Almost everywhere. The front entrance way, the sitting room, and the corridor leading to the bedroom.” 

“My old room, too?” John asks, and Sherlock shakes his head.

“No. Just those three, but it gives adequate coverage. The bathroom is free, but access to it is monitored.” 

John looks at him. “You’re sure the kitchen isn’t monitored?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock sounds definite. “I was very thorough.” 

“So – when were they put there? And when did you discover them?” John wants to know. 

They’re crossing a footbridge and Sherlock stops in the middle, where they have a clear vantage point in every direction. “This afternoon, immediately upon my return,” Sherlock tells him. They turn to look out over the water and Sherlock leans into him, just perceptibly. “I had an idea that might happen. You remember Moriarty’s fondness for cameras.” 

“The real Moriarty, yes,” John points out. “Is there audio as well?” 

“That’s what I don’t know. I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Sherlock says. 

“And you’re sure that the cameras are Moriarty’s and not Mary’s?” John asks, very directly. “If she _did_ come to the flat the other night…”

“That’s the question,” Sherlock agrees. “So I thought we’d best not take any chances.” John’s arms are crossed, leaning against the rail, but Sherlock puts one hand over the one resting on his arm. “I’ll take the cameras down tomorrow. I just wanted you to be seen being – the way you’re supposed to be seen while there. Sooner would have looked suspicious. Thank you for going along with it.” 

John raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Don’t apologise. That was incredible.” 

Sherlock’s face relaxes and he smiles. “Have you had any luck confirming the pregnancy, or lack thereof?” 

“No. Not yet,” John says. He thinks of the glass shard, then decides not to mention it. He can’t be sure that it wasn’t just a complete accident. “Clever about the phone,” he says instead. “Brilliant move, with the canvasser.” 

“Mycroft’s idea, but a good one,” Sherlock agrees. “Speaking of whom, he may be in touch soon. One never knows.” 

“Naturally,” John says dryly. “My favourite.” He thinks of Mycroft. _Look after him. Please_ and thinks silently, _I will. I am._

Sherlock chuckles at his comment. “I suppose I should let you get back to the flat,” he says, just a touch wistfully. “I wish you could stay.” 

As if on cue, John’s phone buzzes. The flip phone is back in its spot in his underwear. The buzz comes from his coat pocket. He looks. It’s Mary. _Are you coming home soon? I’m making spaghetti. xx_ He shows it to Sherlock. “I did tell her I was swinging by to catch up on the latest with the Moriarty case,” he says. 

“You’d best go,” Sherlock tells him. “I’ll be in touch soon.” 

They walk back toward the city with its light and noise, but just before they leave the park, Sherlock nods toward a particularly dense patch of shadow beneath a clump of trees. They duck into it and Sherlock’s arms come around him and they kiss unrestrainedly, John feeling awash with passion and with Sherlock. When they part, neither of them says a word, though Sherlock looks into his eyes for a long, intense moment, his hands cradling John’s face with enough tenderness to make him want to weep. They leave the park and turn to go their separate ways, John to the tube and Sherlock back to the solitary flat. 

“Be careful,” Sherlock says, and John nods. 

“I will.” They look at each other for a moment longer, then John makes himself turn and walk away, hating to do it and feeling Sherlock’s eyes on his retreating form, pulling him back. One day, he thinks fiercely. One day I will go to him and never leave him again. 

*** 

John walks into the flat to the smell of spaghetti bolognese. It smells good. Spaghetti is one thing that Mary makes pretty well, but then it’s not that hard, is it. Nevertheless, he’s hungry after what just happened at Baker Street and a long day at work before that. “Hello,” he calls, and Mary responds. 

“Just in here!” She sticks her head out of the kitchen and smiles at him. “Perfect timing. It’s ready.” 

John takes off his scarf and steps out of his shoes. “Didn’t you get my text?” 

“Which one?” Mary asks, pushing her hair off her forehead. 

“The one where I said I was going to Baker Street before coming home, to catch up on the Moriarty case?” John hangs up his things, still watching her. 

Mary looks a bit nonplussed. “Yes, that’s why I texted you,” she says. “I just wondered when you were coming home. That’s all. I was making dinner and didn’t want it to be overcooked.” 

John frowns at her. “It could have taken much longer than it did,” he points out. “I don’t know why you started cooking without knowing when I was going to be finished.”

Mary’s brow crinkles a bit. “I was hungry,” she says, a bit cross. “I’m eight months pregnant, John.” 

John forces his face to relax with difficulty. “Of course,” he says, immediately nicer. “Sorry. But I’m not too late?” 

Mary brightens, pleased by his response. “Not at all! You arrived at the perfect time. Come sit down and I’ll pour you a glass of wine.” 

“I’m all right,” John says, waving off the wine. 

Mary looks disappointed. “You sure?” 

John goes over, dropping a light kiss on her forehead on his way to wash his hands at the sink. “Yeah. I don’t like to drink when you can’t join me. Doesn’t seem fair.” 

Mary’s eyes beam at him, her smile wonderfully warm. She puts a hand on his cheek. “Oh, _John_. There’s the version of you I remember. The one I fell in love with.” 

John makes himself smile back, though it doesn’t materialise completely. “We’ll… get there,” he says, a bit lamely, but it’s the best he can do. He sure as hell isn’t going to kiss her, not with the feel of Sherlock’s lips still burning on his. He moves away and goes to the sink, giving his hands a quick wash. 

If Mary is disappointed by his lukewarm response, she hides it well, her smile only a touch rueful as he sits down across from her. She pushes the bowl of spaghetti across to him. “Help yourself.” 

John scoops out a generous portion for himself, then passes the bowl back to Mary. “Smells good,” he says. He reaches for the grated parmesan and adds a hefty bit, pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher. 

Mary serves herself a much smaller portion and picks up her silverware slowly, looking at the spaghetti but making no move to eat it. 

John twirls several strands around his fork and eats it. It’s spicy – very spicy. He sets down his fork and picks up his water glass. “Wow,” he says after, his eyes watering. “That’s hot!” 

“Is it?” Mary squints at it. “I did add a lot of hot sauce. I thought you liked it spicy, though.” 

“I do, but – you know what, it’s fine,” John says, changing his mind. He takes another bite, chews and swallows. “You know what, maybe I’ve just been eating too much bland food lately.” 

Mary takes a very small bite and makes a face. “That _is_ spicy,” she says. “Sorry, John. You like it, though, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” John says, eating another forkful just to reassure her. “It’s great.” Mary has stopped eating, though, and something like a faint alarm bell goes off in the back of his head. “Why aren’t you eating? Is it too hot for you?” 

Mary shakes her head. “It is, a bit, but you know what… suddenly I just don’t feel very well. Would you – ” She stands up suddenly, a bit off-kilter from the weight of her belly, and makes her way to the loo. John listens for a moment, then hears her vomit. 

He puts his silverware down and looks at the spaghetti with great suspicion. Perhaps he’s only being paranoid, but is there a reason Mary won’t eat it? He wasn’t home while she was preparing it… She also didn’t seem particularly ill, showing no symptoms of a sudden onset flu bug or anything along those lines. Good colour, no fever when his lips touched her forehead. She is still in the loo, the water running. John thinks of various poisons studied in medical school and again during army field training and recalls how quickly some of them can act. Better safe than sorry, he thinks grimly. Since Mary is still in the loo, he gets up and retrieves the rubbish bin from under the sink and forces himself to vomit up the spaghetti he just ate. He _hates_ vomiting, will normally do anything to avoid it, but there’s no point taking chances. He can claim the same stomach virus, and then even if there was nothing wrong with the spaghetti whatsoever, it won’t seem suspicious. Unless she _did_ poison it and wonders why he’s ill – although, John reasons with himself, that’s fine, too – it could well seem that he only ingested enough of the poison to make himself ill but not enough to kill him. She could have over-spiced the sauce on purpose to disguise the flavour of the poison. 

Suddenly John wonders if he’s going mad. Is he completely paranoid? It’s highly likely that he imagined that Mary was there at Baker Street that night, that she has no idea, and just added too much hot sauce. And the glass shard in his smoothie could easily have been an accident, too. He just needs to find a way to keep a sample of the spaghetti for Sherlock to test. 

Mary comes back into the kitchen, looking pale. Her face frowns when she sees him bent over the bin. “Are you all right?” she asks. 

“Actually – I think I must have whatever you have,” John says, exaggerating his grimace a little and gesturing at the bin. “I think we’ll have to keep the spaghetti for a day or two from now.” 

Mary comes over and peers into the bin with distaste. “Oh, disgusting,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “You couldn’t have waited until the bathroom was free?” 

“No,” John says, rather dryly. “I really couldn’t.” 

Mary gives him a sympathetic look, then wastes no time going for the spaghetti bowl. “There’s no point keeping this,” she says, not even giving him a moment to protest before she dumps it into the bin. His plate and then hers are next. “I made it way too spicy. I’ll just make a proper, fresh batch when we’re both feeling up to it. I’m sorry, John.” 

She is already knotting the bag and there is nothing John can do to stop her, no way to insist that he wants to fish some of the spaghetti out of the garbage without raising every manner of suspicion, particularly not when it’s been dumped on top of his own vomit. “I’ll take that out before it starts to smell,” he offers. 

Mary shuts this down, too. “It already smells,” she says flatly. “I’ll do it. I need the air, or I’ll be sick again.” 

Neatly, efficiently, she takes this out of his hands. John is left to watch her helplessly dispose of the evidence – if there even was an attempted crime in the first place. He wishes he could be sure. 

*** 

On Friday that week, John has just stepped out of the clinic to get some lunch and air both, feeling as though Tuesday has been an unbearable age away, when a familiar black town car slows suspiciously at the kerb beside him. The opaque window is lowered five inches and Mycroft Holmes says without preamble, “Get in, Doctor Watson.” 

John rolls his eyes and keeps walking. It’s a cold day, the wind brisk, a bit of ice on the pavement. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wind. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“John.” It’s Sherlock’s voice from inside the car. “Please.” 

That changes everything. John stops walking and gets immediately into the car, opening the door and swinging himself inside, the vehicle moving again before the door is fully shut. He finds himself sitting directly across from Mycroft with Sherlock to his left on the same seat. Their eyes meet briefly and then John turns back to face Mycroft. “What’s going on?” he asks abruptly. 

“We needed a briefing,” Mycroft says, his steel-grey eyes surveying John coolly. “This is a secure location and more convenient for you than having you come in to one of my offices. Attracts less attention that way, as well. You know, of course, that you are being watched at all times.” 

“Right,” John says. “So snatching me off the pavement is a good move, then.” 

Mycroft raises a single finger from the handle of the umbrella he’s leaning on. “But an expected one,” he points out. “You’re working on an important case with Sherlock. Mary knows that I would obviously be involved. Therefore this is completely typical.” 

“So it’s Mary watching me, then?” John asks, cocking his head at Mycroft. “Not ‘Moriarty’?” 

Mycroft’s brows lift to his hairline. “They are one and the same, John.” 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock speaks for the first time, his voice sharp. “He didn’t know yet. I wanted to tell him myself.” 

“Ah.” Mycroft looks genuinely apologetic. “In that case, apologies, Doctor Watson. But you knew all along, didn’t you. Surely you suspected.” 

John looks at Sherlock rather than answering. “It’s true?” he asks, his pulse accelerating noticeably. “It was Mary all along?” 

Sherlock winces a little. “I’m afraid so,” he says. “I was going to tell you as soon as I was sure. I’m sure now. Otherwise, if I had said so and then it turned out to be someone else – ”

John understands. He nods. “Yeah. Okay. I get that.” He wants to touch Sherlock somehow, reassure him, but not in front of Mycroft, whom he looks back at now. “How do you know?” 

Mycroft offers one of his slimier smiles, grimly pleased with himself. “She was caught on camera,” he tells John. “Only for a moment, and the proof isn’t conclusive, but for our purposes it is enough. She entered the headquarters of the BBC Broadcasting House on the first of January this year after having disabled all internal security and dodging two CCTV cameras on the street. However, there was a rooftop weather camera we were able to check, which showed her scaling the building around the fifth storey level. I would suggest that as proof enough.” 

“Also a somewhat convincing argument against her pregnancy,” Sherlock adds. “Though she did it months earlier with Magnussen’s office, but that was also a considerably greater height.” 

John shakes his head. “So the BBC and – what, she broke into every other network, too? When would she have found the time? I was with her nearly all the time that week.” 

“She likely has people working for her,” Mycroft tells him. “Sherlock has done a bit of his own work, which I’m sure he’ll share with you, but for the meantime, do allow me to adjure you remember that caution will be required at all times. You are quite literally sleeping with the enemy, John. No slip could be too small. And I suspect that Ms Morstan will become quite ruthless once she suspects that you’re onto her. Watch every single word you say, every muscle of your face. You’re not a spy, but you must learn to be one. You’re our man on the inside on this one.” 

“Right,” John says, trying not to feel completely overwhelmed. “And actually… about that…”

He can feel the concern radiating from Sherlock’s face. “What is it?” he asks, his voice wary. 

“I – well, you might think this sounds crazy, or like I’m being completely, utterly paranoid, but – ” John stops for a moment, trying to choose the right words. 

“Go on,” Sherlock says, his eyes intense. 

John looks at him and has to forcibly tamp down the urge to kiss him. (Not now.) “I – er, I sort of think that Mary may be trying to kill me.” He meets Sherlock’s eyes and tries not to cringe at how ridiculous that actually sounds when said aloud. “I don’t know – does that – ”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, very directly and without prevarication. 

John blinks at him. “Yes, as in – ?” 

“Yes, she’s trying to kill you. If you think she is, then you’re almost certainly correct.” Sherlock’s hand moves closer to his on the seat but stops shy of touching it. “Gut instinct is your department, John. It’s rarely wrong.” 

“Describe what’s happened so far,” Mycroft says, his voice patient. 

John glances out the window out of instinct. They’re crossing the Thames, the traffic light and moving quickly. He tells them about the glass shard and the spaghetti and everything he and Mary both said and did. “I wondered if I was just being paranoid,” he says at the end. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “You must find ways to avoid accepting anything from her, anything that she’s made. If she is truly trying to murder you, she could even use a contact poison – except for the fact that they’re very traceable.” He permits himself a twisted smile. “Mary’s problem is that she is trying to find a way to kill you that I wouldn’t be able to trace back to her, a task she knows will be nigh impossible.” He smirks and John wants to grin back at him. 

“She definitely knows what she’s up against,” he points out, instead. “I mean, she knows how clever you are.” 

Sherlock’s smirk fades. “And I know how clever she is. Mycroft is right: we cannot be too careful.” He looks at his brother. “Speaking of which,” he says rather pointedly. 

Mycroft sighs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he says with disgust, then calls up to the driver. “Pull over here.” The driver dutifully slows down and parks on a quiet side street. 

“Take the driver, too,” Sherlock says, his smirk reappearing. “Go for a walk.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes again and heaves himself out of the car. “You have twenty minutes, maximum, and then we must return Doctor Watson to the clinic.” 

The driver’s door closes a split second after Mycroft’s and he and the driver walk in the direction of the high street. “Where are they going?” John asks, not really caring. 

“Who cares.” Sherlock scoots over on the seat, and they attack each other, hands on whatever they can reach, lips and tongues clashing together and trying to inflict damage on each other. They kiss as though it’s oxygen, the want burning low in John’s gut and all but bursting out of him. He’s climbed onto Sherlock, straddling him and holding his face as they kiss hungrily. Tomorrow it will be one week since this started and John almost can’t believe that they’ve spent literal years together without having got here and curses himself again over all the lost time. They break apart, panting, and Sherlock’s eyes open, sapphire-blue and pooled darkly with desire. “I’ve missed you,” he says, his hands on John’s arse adding their own voice to the argument. 

“I miss you all the time,” John tells him honestly. His entire chest is aching with the need to be even closer to Sherlock. He wants to crawl into his skin and never leave. He puts his mouth on Sherlock’s again, again, his forehead resting against Sherlock’s. “It’s never enough time. Twenty minutes – I need twenty years. A hundred years.” 

Sherlock’s face takes on an expression John has never seen before. “You’ll have it,” he vows. “But right now it’s twenty minutes, so – ”

“God, yes!” John is heartfelt and doesn’t care that it makes Sherlock huff out a laugh, though it’s swallowed in his own arousal. They’re humping each other through their clothes, kissing wildly, and it feels so good to be in Sherlock’s arms again that John wants nothing more than to just make time stop somehow, prolong the feeling forever. 

“John – I need – ” Sherlock is panting and turning them around, depositing John in the corner of the luxuriously wide seats, his fingers scrabbling at John’s jeans. The flip phone slips back a little and John has to grab for it. 

“Hang on – ” He fishes it out with a grin and stows it in his jacket pocket for the time being, and Sherlock laughs. 

“Best place for it,” he agrees, then bends his dark, curly head to John’s lap, mouthing at the hard outline of his cock and making John shiver violently before taking it out of his underwear and applying his mouth to it. Sherlock scraps all efforts at delicacy, sucking audibly at his cock, his fingers probing into John’s underwear to rub and then tug at his balls and John is gasping, all ten fingers in Sherlock’s hair. He’s awash with sensation, the intimacy of it, the urgency of their mutual need to touch and be touched, to be inside one another again, to physically, tangibly love each other – and sheer amount of physical pleasure, too. Sherlock’s lips are tight, his tongue soft and velvety, the insides of his cheeks caressing the length of him, and John’s eyes practically roll back in his head, his toes curling inside his shoes. 

“God – you’re phenomenal, you’re extraordinary!” he gasps out. “That feels – ah – ahh – ” His ability to form words evaporates as Sherlock’s mouth works over him, his own need humming into John as he moans. His tongue circles the head of John’s cock and rubs, his fingers wrapped around him and jerking up and down in time with the bobbing of his head and the climax is spiralling tightly around John, approaching rapidly, far sooner than it should, but he’s helpless to stop it now. “Sher – I’m – ” It’s the only warning he has time to give before it breaks over in beads of sweat on his forehead and then up from his balls and out into the waiting harbour of Sherlock’s throat, swallowing and contracting around him as John comes in wordless ecstasy, his entire body gone taut as it pumps out of him in waves, Sherlock holding him up off the seat with both hands on his arse, John’s cock so far down his throat that his nose is pressed into John’s skin. It finally finishes and John’s breath roars out of him at last, his stomach heaving as he pants. “God,” he breathes, his limbs weak. 

Sherlock eases off him, tongue licking at his slit, catching the drops still squeezing themselves out, kissing along the length of his cock as it slowly wilts again, spent. His lips are incredibly tender and John has a split second of comparing this to the sharp-tongued public version of Sherlock the rest of the world usually sees, and marvels privately. “I love doing this,” Sherlock says, all filters off as he kisses the very base of John’s cock where it meets his balls. “I wish I could do nothing but spend all day finding ways to make you feel good.” 

“I wish you could, too,” John quips, still breathless. “Except I’d only be happy if half that time was spent the other way around, too. Speaking of which.” He pushes himself off the seat and pulls his underwear up over himself while reaching for Sherlock to kiss him again. He tastes himself in Sherlock’s mouth as he slips his hand down to the hardness in his trousers, rubbing it through the material for a moment before going for the button and zip. Inside, Sherlock’s cock has already left a round wet spot on his underwear. “What do you want?” he asks, murmuring against Sherlock’s mouth. “The same? You want my mouth on you, or – ?”

Sherlock takes his hand and slides it down the front of his underwear. “Just this,” he says breathlessly. “And kiss me while you – that’s what I want most right now.”

John puts his mouth on Sherlock’s throat and kisses it, open-mouthed, then says, his hand already beginning to stroke, “Then that’s what we’ll do.” 

“John – ” Sherlock already sounds desperate and John puts their mouths back together. Sherlock kisses him hard, a hand on the back of John’s head, and John winds one leg around Sherlock’s, trying to touch as much of him at once as possible. Sherlock’s cock is oozing wetness already, the foreskin slid all the way back to expose his head. John looks down at it and is strongly tempted to put his mouth on it, but he wants to give Sherlock what he wants. 

He adds a twist to the end of his stroke, lingering to rub the flat of his palm against Sherlock’s leaking head before rubbing him from base to tip again. He makes his tongue soft against Sherlock’s, the kiss no less hungry for it, and slips his other hand past Sherlock’s coat and into his shirt, undoing that straining chest button before it bursts off of its own accord to press his fingers into a nipple. Sherlock is trembling, his hips straining upward, and after another minute or two, he breaks away from the kiss, panting. Undeterred, John continues kissing his face and neck and throat and ears, jerking him harder and faster. 

“John, I – ” His voice sounds almost anguished and then his eyes screw tightly shut. John is lightning-quick, bending to slide his mouth over the head of Sherlock’s cock just before he comes, spatters of release bursting into his mouth the instant his lips close around Sherlock’s flesh. He hears himself make a sound of deep appreciation, swallowing and rubbing with his tongue to urge more out. Sherlock is panting raggedly, his hips jerking upward against his volition, and when he’s mostly spent, John replaces his mouth with his hand, swallows again, and goes back to kissing Sherlock’s hot face. 

“Less mess that way,” he murmurs, mouthing along Sherlock’s jawline and stroking his cock loosely, not wanting to go past the point of oversensitivity. 

After a minute, Sherlock laces his fingers into John’s on his cock and finds his mouth again. They each get themselves zipped away and more or less cleaned up again, then Sherlock turns sideways on the seat and pulls John back into his arms, John leaning against him, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, their faces side-by-side. Both their shoes are on the expensive leather and leaving street grit there, but neither of them cares. Sherlock presses kisses into his temple, his fingers interwoven with John’s on John’s belly, and for the moment, John is perfectly content. 

“I suppose that if I left Mary now, overtly, the thought is that she would come gunning for us both,” he says after awhile. 

Sherlock’s lips press into his hair. “Yes. There’s also the fact that we need to catch her, and having a live-in spy monitoring her actions, at least to the greatest extent possible without being suspicious is obviously to our advantage. We don’t know what she’s up to yet. It’s something, obviously, since she went to the trouble of the broadcast. We just don’t know what. And until we’ve confirmed the pregnancy as fake, there’s also your potential child to consider. Though I have an idea about that.”

“Oh?” John tightens his fingers in Sherlock’s. “Are you going to tell me?” 

Sherlock makes an amused sound, humming into his skull. “Of course. Not now, though. Not yet. It’s been about twenty minutes. Mycroft is bound to – ah.”

The front passenger door opens and Mycroft climbs in without looking back. “You two had better be decent back there,” he says darkly. 

John can all but hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. “Yes, and you can let your driver back in,” he says in tones of exasperation. 

The driver’s door opens and the chauffeur gets in and starts the car again. Mycroft twists around to look at them, his eyebrows arching upward in some mixture of disgust and possibly surprise. John wonders if it’s the fact that they haven’t scrambled away from each other, or whether Mycroft was imagining that it was nothing more than sweaty, athletic sex with no emotional component, if it’s their interlinked fingers that have raised those supercilious brows so high. Mycroft doesn’t comment, though, which is in itself highly uncharacteristic.

As the car gathers speed, John reluctantly sits up properly, disentangling himself from Sherlock’s limbs and putting a hand on his thigh instead. Sherlock immediately covers it with his own. “The other phone,” he says in quiet reminder. 

“Ah. Yes.” John glances ahead at Mycroft, then puts the flip phone back into his underwear as subtly as possible. 

Sherlock turns his face toward him a little. “Can you come to the flat tomorrow? It’s Saturday. I want to show you a few things to do with the case. Can you get away?” 

“Yes,” John says instantly. “Of course. It’s a Saturday. She can’t protest, if I’m not missing work or anything.”

Sherlock turns his face and pushes his nose into John’s temple. “I’m – worried for your safety,” he admits. “I know you can handle yourself, but – ”

“No, I know,” John agrees. He suppresses a shiver. “And I literally sleep in the same bed. I guess the only thing preventing her from smothering me in my sleep is the fact that you would know instantly.” 

“I wonder if even that would prevent her, if an ugly mood took her,” Sherlock muses, almost more to himself. “John – I hate to say it. I hate to even imagine it, but – you may need to make a more overt gesture of reconciliation of some sort. If only to stay her attempts to kill you somewhat.” 

John spends a moment trying to imagine scenarios that don’t involve him having to make love to Mary and fails miserably. “I – can’t,” he says jerkily, uncomfortable. “I can’t fake that, Sherlock. I think I’m doing all right as far as the acting goes – I’ve been careful with my left hand, I’ve been nice-ish around the flat, kissed her on the forehead here and there, but you can’t ask me to do that. I mean, you can ask, but I’m just saying that I don’t think I’m physically capable of it.” 

The sound Sherlock makes against the side of his head is one of decided satisfaction, almost a purr. “Good,” he says. “We’ll think of something. I’ll tell you one of my ideas tomorrow.”

“Will it be safe to talk at the flat?” John asks. “You took down the cameras?” 

“The day after you were last there,” Sherlock assures him. “I’ve been checking regularly. Mrs Hudson hasn’t been allowed to dust in weeks.” 

John laughs, and Mycroft glances back at them in the mirror. “When should I come over?” he asks. 

“Any time. As soon as you can. Should I fabricate a text?” Sherlock asks, clearly meaning on John’s regular mobile. 

“Sure, that would make it easy to get away. Mary knows you prefer to text than to call.” John looks outside. They’re almost at the clinic. “I’ll tell her about this. Just so it doesn’t seem like I kept it a secret on purpose.” 

“Good idea,” Sherlock says approvingly. He glances at Mycroft, then puts a hand on John’s cheek and turns his face to kiss him for a lingering moment. The car stops and Sherlock breaks it off. “Go,” he says, his voice unusually gentle. 

John smiles at him, not filtering it in spite of Mycroft’s watchful eye. “Tomorrow,” he says, the word a promise, and leaves the car with reluctance. 

*** 

He texts Mary around four.

_Had the weirdest lunch break &_  
_ended up only grabbing a sandwich._  
_Thought maybe we should go out for_  
_dinner. We haven’t done that in ages._  
_What do you think?_

Mary texts back sometime during his next appointment and John has to wait until half past to read it and respond. 

_Goodness, what’s the occasion?_

John writes back right away. 

_I really am trying, you know._  
_just thought it might be nice._  
_We don’t have to._

Mary responds as his next patient is being shown in. 

_I’ll make us a reservation. xx_

Well, that should do for the moment, John thinks grimly, putting his phone away and picking up the patient’s chart. “Ah. Mr Howells,” he says. “What seems to be the complaint? A chest cough, is it?”

The patient launches into a rambling explanation of his phlegm and John tries to make himself focus, his mind everywhere but the old man perched on his examining table. That will never do, he lectures himself sternly. You’re a doctor. Focus and act like one. He crosses one knee over the other and gives his patient his full attention. 

*** 

He leaves the clinic a little after five-thirty, texting Mary to say he’s on his way. She doesn’t respond. The wind has picked up from earlier, colder than ever. There’s no snow, but a few dirty ice patches here and there make the walk to the bus stop precarious. When it’s warmer, he’ll start cycling again. (When it’s warmer, hopefully he’ll be living at Baker Street and closer to the clinic again, he thinks.) 

The wind is even stiffer out in the suburbs. He turns into the front walk leading up to the flat, his thoughts on dinner and wondering what restaurant Mary has chosen. He goes up the steps, and the instant he sets his foot down on the top one, his footing gives way and he falls heavily onto his back, partway down the stairs. The wind is knocked out of him, the edges of the stairs cutting into his back in several places.

Behind him, the front door flies open with force. “John!” Mary exclaims in alarm, but at the same time, some warning bell goes off in his head. It all happens in a heartbeat – just as the door opens, a dagger of ice nearly two feet long drops down from the overhang above the porch. Too winded to roll away, John’s reflexes are what save him, working quicker than his brain has time to do. His arm swings out and knocks the icicle away before the point plunges into his chest, the other flung up instinctively to cover his face. Mary is still making noise. “Oh my God! Are you all right?” 

She is there beside him and John has to fight off the urge to strike her, push her away. Instead he grits his teeth and allows her to help him sit up. “Why the _hell_ do we have icicles this big on the house?” he snaps, irritable. 

Mary shakes her head. “Someone came by offering to clean the gutters on the cheap,” she says. “Ours were full of leaves from the autumn still, when you were away. I didn’t think you’d want me climbing up there, pregnant, so I said yes. I’m sorry, I had no idea it dripped like that. You poor thing. Let’s get you inside and get some paracetamol. It’s freezing out here.” 

John’s back spasms and protests, but he lets her help him to his feet, massaging his back where the edge of the steps dug in. It hurts to breathe. He gives the ice patch at the top of the steps a wide berth and notes that Mary does, too. It’s gleaming oddly, almost as though a layer of grease or oil has been added to it. He harbours no doubts whatsoever that Mary will have salted and got rid of it before he has a chance to have a look, though. He gets himself inside and sits down in one of the armchairs. 

“Did you hit your head?” Mary asks from the kitchen. “Need an ice pack?” 

John touches the back of his head. There’s a small bump but nothing serious. “Sure, that’d be great,” he says. 

Mary comes in two minutes later carrying a plastic bag of ice cubes with a tea towel to shield his skin, a glass of water, and two extra-strength paracetamol tablets. Just like a properly concerned, loving wife. She perches on the arm of his chair and strokes his forehead. “I put the kettle on,” she says. “I’ll make you a proper cup of tea.” 

John thinks of the spaghetti and doesn’t say anything. “Are we still on for dinner?” he asks instead, trying not to sound grumpy. 

Mary looks at him. “Do you still want to go out?” she asks, sounding a bit dubious. “If you want to stay in and take it easy, that’s fine. I could cook.” 

John makes himself put a hand on her knee. “No, let’s go out,” he says firmly. “I’d like that. And tomorrow I’ve got to work on the case with Sherlock, so I’d like to spend time with you. All right?” 

Mary smiles down at him, her thumb rubbing over his forehead affectionately. “All right,” she agrees. “If you feel up to it, then let’s go out.”

John’s mouth smiles back, the smile hollow inside. “Okay.” 

He endures dinner and manages to keep her chatting about what she did all day, which was mostly lunch and shopping with a friend John has forgotten about or else never heard of before, a newer invention. He thinks in passing that it sounds a touch rehearsed and wonders how she managed to arrange all that: the greased ice, the precariously loose row of icicles. How did she perfect the timing of banging the door open in order to loosen the monster that came crashing down toward his chest? He eats his food and wonders if she knows someone in the kitchen who may have poisoned it, but perhaps she wouldn’t be careless enough to try poisoning him twice, knowing that he’ll be extra careful about accepting food or drinks from her now. 

After they get home, John pleads fatigue and goes to bed. She suggests a shower and he thinks of his shoulders and back, already stiffening up, and agrees that it’s a good idea. He strips in the loo rather than the bedroom, for the sake of keeping the flip phone nearby. There is a corner of the bath that the water doesn’t reach, so he takes it in with him. He feels jumpy and on edge. They’ve got to solve this soon, or else the next time she tries to kill him, maybe he won’t catch it in time. Maybe his reflexes will kick in too slowly. Or maybe she’ll just get tired of the subtlety. 

The shower helps a little, as do the next two tablets of paracetamol. Mary comes into the bedroom while he’s already in bed, changing in the loo as well. She comes out in a flowing maternity nightgown and puts her clothes away before getting into bed beside him. She turns onto her side and puts a hand over his wrist, just holding him there. John forces himself to not yank his hand away, out of her fingers. Her grip is as light as cobwebs, but steel-strong, he knows. As before, he makes himself wait until she’s asleep, or seems to be, before he can let himself drift off. 

*** 

Sherlock texts at half past nine in the morning. John is already awake, having deliberately woken ahead of Mary so that he could make breakfast himself. He moves stiffly around the kitchen, feeling his fall in most of the muscles in his back, shoulders, and legs. He takes some more paracetamol, then sets about making scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast and goes to wake Mary five minutes before it’s all ready. They’ve just finished eating when Sherlock texts. John puts down his coffee to read it. “Ah. There’s my cue,” he says, feigning wryness. “Looks like things are hotting up on the case.” 

Mary doesn’t seem perturbed. “All right,” she says mildly. “Call if you’re going to be late or something.” 

“Will do.” John takes his plate and cup to the sink and gives her a smile in lieu of a kiss as he goes for his coat. He takes a cab for once, relieved to be out of the suburbs and closes his eyes during the ride. The constant tension of being around Mary is taking its toll, along with the soreness in his muscles. 

Sherlock is waiting for him downstairs, just back from the door where he won’t be seen from the street. “John,” he says once the door is closed and locked, sounding relieved. John turns around and goes to him. Instead of kissing him as he’d expected, Sherlock puts his arms around him and holds him for a long moment. “I saw your fall,” he says tightly, his face in John’s hair. “Are you all right? You must be sore.” 

John tightens his arms a little. “I am,” he admits. “How did you see it?” 

Sherlock makes a smug sound. “Surveillance,” he says. “I’ll show you. In a minute.” He bends his head to John’s and kisses him now, a long, very tender kiss completely unlike the hungry ones in Mycroft’s car yesterday. When it draws to a close several minutes later, John’s knees are weak, clutching Sherlock to himself. “Come upstairs,” Sherlock says, his voice low and almost gravelly. He takes John’s hand, linking their fingers together, and leads him up. In the sitting room he goes straight to the laptop sitting on the desk. He clicks and types something and clicks again. “Look.” 

John bends over his shoulder, his arms crossed over Sherlock’s chest. He kisses Sherlock’s mop of curls and looks at the screen. It’s them in the front entrance way, their kiss. He watches it, smiling. “We look amazing together.” 

“I quite agree,” Sherlock says, sounding satisfied. “It looks like something out of a film.” 

“Well, in the future if we ever run short of money, we could always take to making home videos,” John says, his voice lower, turning his face into Sherlock’s neck and nuzzling at his ear with his lips. 

Sherlock shivers. “We could,” he says, not laughing. He puts his left hand on one of John’s arms, holding it, and clicks something else with his right hand. The scene changes to John walking up the front walk the previous afternoon and shows the entire slip on the ice. John winces, watching the panic on his own face as he bats away the spear of ice as it plummets toward his chest cavity. Sherlock’s hand tightens. “That was close. Too close. Thank God you’re all right.” 

John bends further and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m fine,” he says. “It does get exhausting, though.” 

Sherlock clicks back through the same video feed. “We have proof now,” he says grimly. “Come here and look at this.” 

He scoots his chair back a little and John gets it and moves around to perch on Sherlock’s lap, liking Sherlock’s arms around him the way they are. He watches with mounting disbelief as Mary clambers nimbly and still very pregnant-looking, along the roofline of the house, a ladder leaned up against them, slowly pouring a bucket of water into the gutters, deliberately spilling some over the edge. It’s a crap way to clean the gutters in the first place, John thinks critically. They’ll be full of ice now. Once that part is finished, she’s down the ladder and carefully forming more ice at the top of the steps. Sherlock skips ahead, showing her coming out to check on the progress of the icicles and ice patch both. A little later, she comes back out with a container John recognises as the one he dumps bacon grease into so that it won’t clog the drain. She smears the ice patch with the bacon fat, then looks around, gathers a bit of loose snow from the top of the railing, and scatters it over the surface before going back inside. A later shot shows Mary sitting in the window, watching for John to arrive. “Wow,” John says in disbelief and disgust. “Why did you let me marry this woman?” 

He’s only partly in jest. Sherlock pulls his face down to kiss him and says, “Because I thought you loved her.” They kiss, kiss again. “I kept myself from seeing it,” Sherlock says, his voice very low. Another kiss. “I wanted you to have what you wanted.” Another kiss, deeper this time. 

“I do now,” John tells him, meaning it with all his heart, and the next kiss goes on much longer, gentle and sensuous and filled with everything that John always told himself that Sherlock never did, never felt. It’s still such a marvel to see it unleashed like this, no filters in place. 

After a little, Sherlock pulls away and says, “I haven’t even shown you all the feeds yet.”

John laughs, stroking his hair. “Show me, then,” he says. 

Sherlock pulls him closer, adjusting where John’s weight falls on his legs and says, “You’ve lost that seven pounds, but you’re still heavy. I like it,” he adds, before John can retort. “I like feeling it on me. Here – look, I’ve got them here in the flat, too.” He clicks through multiple screens, showing the kitchen, the sitting room, the interior of both the upstairs bedroom and his own, the corridor, and Mrs Hudson’s sitting room, kitchen, and bedroom, too. The last is the front hall again, which includes the doorway leading down to the basement and 221C. 

“You were thorough,” John says, impressed. “Where are they? Where’s the one on Mary’s flat? On a street lamp or something?” 

“Parked car,” Sherlock says. “It’s a navy blue sedan. You’ll see it later. Can you spot the ones in here?” 

John looks around the room. From the angle into the sitting room, he can tell it must be near the far corner, where Moriarty’s was. Intrigued, he gets up and goes over to look, unable to find it until Sherlock tells him. He opens the hollow book carefully and examines the tiny camera lodged into its spine. “Ingenious,” he says, meaning it. “The others?” 

Sherlock gets up. “Come see,” he says, and spends several minutes showing John where’s he’s placed them. While they’re downstairs, he also shows John a click-counter he’s had installed over the doorstep, counting every person who comes or goes. It had a light, he explains, but he disabled it to keep it from flashing. They go back upstairs. “I fully expect to see Mary on one of the feeds, back in here to reinstall her cameras,” he says smugly. “And this time we’ll not only catch her at it, but see whether or not she installs audio, too, and the exact placement of the cameras. It will make it much easier.” 

“Nice,” John says admiringly. “You’re brilliant!”

“What I am, precisely, is two steps ahead of Mary,” Sherlock says, sounding pleased with himself. “There’s more, but – would you like to take a bath, perhaps? I bought some eucalyptus Epsom salts last night after you fell. You must be sore. I thought perhaps a bath would help, and perhaps a massage?” 

John looks at him and feels an incredible amount of gratitude wash over him. Anyone who thinks that Sherlock is thoughtless or cold can go and sod themselves. Because when he cares, he cares more than anyone else. He also remembers in that split second that it’s been exactly one week now since he thought he’d lost Sherlock first to Serbia and then to an overdose, or rather, a suicide attempt. He is so, so lucky. They’re so lucky to have found this at last. He’s almost afraid to let himself speak but manages, “A bath would be perfect. That sounds amazing.” 

Sherlock smiles, his brows coming together in a slightly quizzical look at the same time, uncertain about the tightness in John’s voice, maybe, but all he says is, “I’ll go and run it, then. Would you like some tea? Have you eaten breakfast?” 

“I have, but tea would be great,” John says. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Sherlock concedes and allows him to do this, heading off to the loo. 

John puts the kettle on, thinks for a moment, then gets out the tea tray. It will take awhile for the bath to fill, anyway. He sets out a couple of clean mugs, the sugar bowl (for Sherlock), and checks the milk in the fridge. It seems to be fine, so he pours some into the cream pitcher and adds a spoon. He measures out loose Earl Grey into the teapot and hears Sherlock say his name, questioningly. “I’m coming!” he calls back. “I’ll be right there!” The kettle boils, so he pours the water, puts the lid on the teapot, and carries the entire works to the loo. 

Sherlock is perched sideways on the edge of the tub, fully dressed, looking back over his shoulder and checking the water with his long fingers. The line of his neck is exaggerated from this angle and for a moment John feels actually breathless. Sherlock has always been a strikingly beautiful man in ways that both defy and meet standards of ‘conventional beauty’, as he would scoffingly refer to it. His head turns now, his slanted eyes a bright blue in this particular light and he smiles. “John,” he says, the name like music on his tongue. “You’re just in time.” His eyes take in the tea tray and scan the length of John’s body with considerable interest. He nods at the counter. “Set that down and take off your clothes,” he says, the words perfectly even, but John’s ears are attuned for it now, the darker undertone of sly amusement and arousal all in one. 

The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbow and John wants to kiss his lithe, sinewy forearms. (Later, he promises himself.) He does as he’s told, putting the tea tray down. “That eucalyptus is strong,” he comments. 

“I added some peppermint oil, too,” Sherlock tells him. He gets up and comes to help John undress, his fingers deftly stripping the layers away. Their eyes meet and John can’t help it – neither of them can, it seems. Their mouths come together jointly, and John feels it all again so much that he feels as though it could come spilling up out his mouth without restraint, reducing him to pieces. He pours it into Sherlock, trying to say it all silently. He knows for a fact that he has never in all his life loved this hard, this much. Somehow Sherlock manages to finish undressing him even as they kiss, leaving him in only his socks. Sherlock releases him at last, opens his eyes and says, “Get your socks off and get in.” He smiles, and John’s entire being glows. 

“Okay,” he says, removing the socks and tossing them onto the laundry hamper in old habit. Sherlock holds his hand as he gets into the bath. 

“Your balance could be a little off since you were knocked on the head,” he explains. “How is the temperature?” 

“Perfect,” John says, settling into the water and trying not to feel self-conscious about his partial erection. The water _is_ perfect, just hot enough to make his skin prickle without burning, and the fragrant eucalyptus and mint oils curl into his nostrils and clear his sinuses and head both. He closes his eyes. “This is divine. Exactly what I needed.” 

Sherlock makes a pleased sound. “I’ll pour the tea,” he says. “You relax, and I’ll go on telling you what else I have in mind.” 

“Okay,” John says again, completely content to let Sherlock manage things for the time being. (A week ago he was forcing Sherlock to give him a urine sample in this very room, at nearly the same time of the day. Unreal.) He leans his head against the back of the long tub and lets his legs float. He’s always loved taking baths in this tub; it’s actually long enough, unlike most, and the angled slope of this end of it is just perfect for taking long soaks. He thinks about it and realises he’s never once taken a bath in Mary’s flat. Interesting, that. 

Sherlock pours two cups of tea, adds milk to John’s and puts it on the lid of the toilet where he can reach it when he’s ready before adding milk and sugar to his own and arranging himself on the counter, his long legs dangling. “According to the bag of salts, you should soak for at least twelve minutes,” he informs John. “Though longer is more beneficial. You like long baths, anyway.” 

“True,” John says, smiling at the ceiling. Of course Sherlock remembers that. “So: what else is going on, then, you clever thing?” 

Sherlock smiles at this. “You remember the arson case earlier in the week.” 

“Yes, of course,” John says. “With the charred card with the _J. M._ initials.” 

“I found the print shop where they were made,” Sherlock tells him, sounding incredibly smug. 

John looks at him. “What? Seriously?”

Sherlock looks as pleased with himself as he deserves to. “Yup. They had records of when they were printed, and luckily for us, they’d just had new security cameras put in because of their fancy new colour copier.” 

“And – Mary ordered the cards,” John says. 

“Quite. Fifty of them. I do hope she’s not planning fifty crimes to use them for,” Sherlock says dryly. “And frankly, I’m getting tired of her trying to kill you.”

“That makes two of us,” John says. “I’m on edge all the time.” 

“As you should be,” Sherlock says seriously. “She is incredibly dangerous, John. We need to do something to put the ball back in our court, so that you’re not just having to wait for the next attempt all the time. I have an idea about that.” 

“Okay. Let’s hear it,” John says. The scented steam is both relaxing and invigorating, working into his knotted muscles and beginning to relax them already.

“We drug Mary,” Sherlock says, his eyes gleaming. “Or rather, you drug Mary. While she is unconscious, we – or you, rather – strip her down and see whether or not she’s actually carrying a child. If not, it should apparent fairly immediately. If it is a real pregnancy, then obviously there would be other considerations. A paternity test, for instance. If she is really carrying your child, obviously that will affect our choices.”

“Right, okay,” John says, frowning a little. “But what do we tell her when she wakes up and wants to know how she came to be unconscious?” 

“Oh, we’ll invent something,” Sherlock says dismissively. “The point is, we’re operating under the hypothesis that the pregnancy is not real. When she wakes up to find the false belly removed and you sitting by her side, the power balance will shift drastically in our favour. In this case, you would react with loving compassion, explaining that you know why she falsified a pregnancy, blah blah blah, and forgive her as gently and tenderly as you possibly can. She will be forced to keep up the façade of the truce for longer, plus she’ll know that she is doubly indebted to you for having forgiven this.” 

John nods thoughtfully. “Definitely,” he says. “That could work. And if she _is_ pregnant?” 

Sherlock snorts. “Then we get her dressed again before she wakens and you tell her that she briefly lost consciousness but that she’s going to be fine. You can still put on a protective act regarding the fall and the safety of the infant, et cetera. The point is that she will know that she was completely vulnerable and in your hands for a period of time unknown to her. If she thinks that you suspect her of the subtle murder attempts, this will hopefully chasten her, knowing that you could have harmed her while she was unconscious. Even if she suspects that you caused her loss of consciousness, she’ll know that you had the chance and didn’t take it.” 

“True,” John says. “Yes. Smart.”

Sherlock smirks. “Devious. I’m not sure if they’re one and the same.” 

“In your case they are,” John says. He sits up and reaches for his tea and watches the way Sherlock’s eyes trail over his chest and into the water. “What else?” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock sounds unfocused and John has to repeat himself. “Oh.” He drags his eyes back to John’s face. “The arson case – I think it’s a false lead. I think she may be leaving us other crumbs here and there as a distraction to something else, something much worse. I mean, the question is why she chose to ‘come back’, as Moriarty, right now. Why now? Was it her plan all along? Another question is who the chief power was between she and Moriarty. Was he her boss or was she his? If she was his, what else is she responsible for? If he was hers, then is she trying to take over? Rekindle what he started? What is her modus operandi? For Moriarty himself, it was always about the game, about our rivalry, but I don’t get that sense from Mary. If it’s strictly mercenary, who is hiring her? Is she just a freelance agent of chaotic, pointless evil, or is there some grander plan?”

“I don’t know,” John says, slowly, thinking. “As to the timing, maybe she already suspected that it was over between us. Even you and I aside – it already was, Sherlock. You know I only went back because of the baby. She’s not stupid – though she’s also not more intelligent than you, you tit. She might have figured that out, even once I’d come back. Maybe she was always going to cut her losses and go back to the life she came from.” 

“Very possible,” Sherlock allows. He picks up his tea and takes another swallow, thinking. 

“The tea is perfect, by the way,” John says. “You put in just the right amount of milk.” 

“You’re the one who brewed the tea. Thank yourself,” Sherlock says, the corner of his lip twisting in a smile. He drinks again, then sets the cup aside and comes to kneel beside the tub. “We have to stop her, John,” he says, very soberly. 

“We will,” John tells him, meaning it. “We absolutely will. Together.” 

Sherlock’s face softens and comes closer and they kiss again, twice, three times. Sherlock probes at his shoulders with his fingertips. “Turn that way,” he instructs, pointing at the far wall, so John turns himself, sitting cross-legged. Sherlock begins to massage his shoulders. “Your shoulders are very tight,” he comments. “Thank God your reflexes are so fast, though. That icicle was enormous.”

“And it’s the perfect murder weapon, as you always say,” John says, closing his eyes, his head bowed forward. “It disposes of itself, or can be melted in just seconds.” 

“Exactly.” Sherlock’s fingers dig in harder, making him wince a little, but it feels good, too. “Keep breathing,” Sherlock tells him, and John does it, not realising he’d stopped. 

He leans forward to allow Sherlock access to his back, his eyes closed, revelling in the sensation. He loves massages and can’t remember the last time he had one. Sherlock’s fingers probe at the scar tissue behind his left shoulder, still slightly sensitive to the touch, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything about it. Just notes it and files it away. John thinks of the scars on Sherlock’s back and feels the desire to go and hunt down every person who left a physical mark on Sherlock down all over again. 

“Tea?” Sherlock asks after a bit. 

“Okay,” John says, and Sherlock passes it to him. He sips carefully as Sherlock continues massaging him, working the soreness slowly out of his muscles. When the cup is empty, he gives it back and Sherlock takes it from him. He leans forward to get his arms beneath John’s now, massaging his pecs, and John’s erection gives a visible twitch and begins firming up again. He turns his face to the side, toward Sherlock, and breathes his name. Sherlock obliges at once, kissing him, his hands finally stilling. His sleeves must be wet but he doesn’t seem to care. “Come in here with me,” John murmurs after a bit, and Sherlock doesn’t argue. 

He gets to his feet and strips off his clothes rapidly as John turns himself around again, then comes over. He’s more than halfway hard, too, John notes, his eyes going to Sherlock’s cock at once. He sees John’s eyes on it and smiles, his left eyebrow arching. “What are you looking at?” 

“Your cock,” John says, dragging his eyes from it up to Sherlock’s face before letting them drop back to Sherlock’s bobbing erection. “Come here.”

Sherlock obliges, getting close enough to allow John to get his mouth on it at last, a wet hand gripping his arse at the same time. He sucks in his breath suddenly. “Your – mouth is all warm from the tea,” he gets out, reaching for the towel bar to support himself. “I’m supposed to be – taking care of _you_ today – oh – ”

John hums his amusement into Sherlock’s skin, sucks a little more, then Sherlock pulls himself out of his mouth and clambers into the tub, his long limbs settling onto John as some of the water sloshes over the sides. “There’s going to be a lake on the floor.” 

“I don’t care.” Sherlock kisses him, his mouth just as warm and tasting like very sweet tea, too. “Mmm. The water is tingly.” John makes a sound of agreement, not interrupting the kiss. They’re both hard, the hot water notwithstanding, and after awhile trying to rub against each other in the water can only go so far. 

“Bed?” John suggests, and Sherlock agrees. 

“I wasn’t really finished the massage,” he says. “I bought some oil and everything.” 

John lets himself be helped out of the tub. “If you think I’m going to say no to you touching me, think again.” 

Sherlock’s laugh is low and hits John squarely in the pelvis. They dry off and move into the bedroom. Sherlock has already removed the blankets and laid out a single bath sheet in the middle of the bed. 

John is impressed. “You really were thorough.” 

Sherlock puts his arms around his waist from behind him and kisses his neck. “For you? Always.” 

John shivers, feeling the hardness of Sherlock’s cock against the upper curve of his arse. He puts his hands over Sherlock’s, which are caressing the bit of pudge at his belly. “I love you,” he says, and Sherlock kisses his neck again. 

“Don’t start that, or I’ll never finish this massage,” he scolds lightly, and releases John. “Go lie down on your front.” 

John grins. He’s used to being the one to call the shots in the bedroom, but this is an interesting switch. His muscles are still a bit sore despite the bath and the first round of the massage, and he’s tired and being taken care of sounds pretty perfect. He does as he’s instructed and arranges himself on the towel. “Are you going to sit on my arse?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says, a hint of smirk to his tone. “Where else?” His weight dips the mattress to John’s left and then Sherlock is there, settling himself comfortably right there, the weight and heat of his balls warm on John’s skin. “Pass me the bottle under the pillow.” 

John explores with his fingers and finds both a bottle of massage oil and the lube, and pushes them both back to Sherlock, just in case. “I love massages.” 

“I’ve just discovered that I love giving them,” Sherlock tells him, sounding amused. “Works out well.” He uncaps the oil and rubs it briskly between his palms, then starts in on John’s shoulders again.

His weight leans forward, directly on John’s arse, and interestingly, his cock gives a throb at this, at feeling Sherlock there. Huh, he thinks. Interesting, indeed. He wills himself to relax, to let go of the tension caused by the panic of the icicle, the sudden fall, the fear to accept anything given to him by Mary, even the wariness of showering and sleeping with her nearby. With Sherlock, he is safe. Together they can handle anything Mary tries to throw at them, surely. “You know,” he says, his chin resting on his folded arms, “I couldn’t even wager a guess about her motives. I really just don’t know her that well. I can’t even hazard a guess as to whether it’s a specific plan, or just random acts of violence for money, or whether she acts out of revenge or spite or what. I honestly have no idea.”

“Which is why, when she’s unconscious, we’re also going to hack into her laptop,” Sherlock says. “I forgot to mention that before. Mycroft’s lending us his best hacker for the job. I’ve forgotten his name. Pete? I don’t know.” 

John chuckles. “You and names,” he says. 

“I’ve never forgotten yours, you’ll notice,” Sherlock says, his voice dropping into bass range. His hands are working along John’s spine now, his fingers and thumbs finding all the right places to knead and press into, and it feels heavenly. John reminds himself not to drool. “Relax,” Sherlock reminds him. “We can discuss it more later.” 

John feels a laugh huff out of him. “I thought I was here specifically to discuss the case.”

“Right now, you’re here to be looked after,” Sherlock corrects him. He shifts down onto John’s thighs and digs all ten fingers into the meat of his arse and John groans. “Feel good?” Sherlock asks, not relenting. 

“Yes – don’t stop – ”

“Wasn’t going to,” Sherlock all but purrs, his hands working away. 

It feels a bit ridiculous, even with everything considered, but no one’s ever really touched his arse like this, even in a not-specifically-sexual setting (though that’s also a ridiculous claim; they’re both naked and hard and Sherlock is touching his arse – of _course_ it’s inherently sexual). It’s completely arousing and he has to keep himself from actively rutting his hard cock against the towel.

Sherlock massages every bit of his arse until it feels like melted butter to John, then pauses for a moment. John waits, and then Sherlock continues rubbing his left cheek and slides his long middle finger between his cheeks. “May I?” he asks, his voice low and thick with desire. 

John nods, arousal practically sweating off his brow. “Yeah – okay – ” He’s never had anyone do this before, put anything up there. He’s tried it himself but was never all that flexible and it was too much fuss to bother with. He keeps himself relaxed as Sherlock massages his hole. He would feel self-conscious about his cleanliness, but he just had a bath. It feels surprisingly good. Intimate, having any part of Sherlock inside him like this. 

Sherlock stretches out on his side, one leg draped over the back of John’s, his finger still working within him. “How does it feel?” he asks. 

“Good,” John says honestly, and Sherlock kisses him. They go on kissing, Sherlock going a little deeper, his entire finger inside. He touches something and John breaks away, gasping. “Holy shit!”

“Found your prostate, then,” Sherlock says, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. He presses into it again and John’s entire body quivers, his cock jerking beneath him. 

“More,” he says, unable to organise full sentences. “Please – ”

Sherlock nods and withdraws his finger, coming back with two. “I’ve read recently that many men are able to achieve orgasm from this act alone,” he comments, and those words have no business sounding as sexy as they do. 

“I believe it,” John says, all but writhing as Sherlock presses into his prostate again, pleasure spreading like wildfire through his frame. 

Sherlock kisses him again, then says, “I want to try something.” He shifts downward again and gently moves John’s thighs further apart. His fingers disappear and John is about to protest, but then he feels hot breath first, followed by Sherlock’s tongue – oh holy fuck, his _tongue_ , John’s mind supplies helpfully – right there, on his hole. Licking it, massaging the surface and dipping inside in turns. 

John’s palms are sweating with need, his cock stiffer than a rod, trapped between his body and the mattress. “Jesus,” he pants. “I’d no idea that could – feel so good – oh fuck, fuck, yes, keep – fuck!” He’s unfolded his arms in favour of clutching at the sheets, trying his hardest not to push his arse back against Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock’s hands are holding him by the hips, encouraging that very thing. John feels absolutely desperate for it, for more still, and suddenly he knows exactly what he needs. “I want your cock in me!” he gasps out. “Please, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock moans directly into him, then lifts his face and says, “Are you – sure you want that?” 

“God, yes! Fuck me – please!” John has rarely been surer of anything. He’d never thought he might want this, but following the massage, Sherlock’s fingers, and that incredible thing he’s been doing with his tongue, he’s absolutely gagging for it. 

Sherlock is breathing hard, his hands temporarily occupied, and then he’s there, spreading his body weight out directly over John’s back. The hard line of his erection rubs into John’s crack as though just mimicking the act, and even that’s enough to make John shudder violently. 

“Please,” he moans, and Sherlock agrees fervently. 

“Yes,” he says, the word heavy with lust. His hips tilt back a little, re-angling, and then he begins to push into John without preamble, in one long, steady push. 

It’s tight and there’s a bit of a burn, but John’s groan is far more one of pleasure than of pain. “God,” he breathes, as Sherlock rocks a little within him, pressing all the way in. 

“I’m – inside you,” he says, his voice hoarse. His arms dig beneath John’s torso, hugging him tightly to himself, his cock buried in John’s body and throbbing there. 

John can feel himself throbbing in return, in his cock, his arse, and his chest. “It feels – incredible,” he says, his throat tight with arousal and emotion both. “Keep going – you can move more now.” 

Sherlock doesn’t change positions, just his hips back far enough to drive himself into John again, then again, experimentally. John can feel him trembling and feels it all with him, everything Sherlock must be feeling, both physically and mentally. It’s a different way of being joined and he suddenly understands why Sherlock wanted this from him so badly. That, and it feels so good his entire body is on fire with arousal. Sherlock begins to speed up, getting into a rhythm, and John’s body relaxes and allows it with more and more ease. “Fuck – John – ” Sherlock is going still faster, his entire body rocking against John, against his arse. 

John has never actually heard him swear before and in the moment, it’s a huge turn-on. He also gets that in this position, Sherlock probably can’t get the traction they both need. “Let me lift up a bit,” he says. “It’ll be easier.” Without pulling out of him, Sherlock manages to let him up onto his knees, still balanced on his forearms with his arse in the air. “Okay – now,” John says. 

Sherlock takes him by the hips and begins to pound into him. He moans immediately. “Oh God – oh yes, this is – ah – ”

He switches from words to sounds alone, plunging into John, his hands rubbing over John’s back and sides, and it feels absolutely amazing, but then Sherlock changes angles and his cock starts pushing against his prostate again and John cries out. “God, yes, right there, that’s – ” Sherlock understands at once and keeps going, bending forward to reach down for John’s dripping-wet cock. It only takes four strokes of his hand and five or six more thrusts against his prostate and then the climax breaks over him like a wave, crashing through him and spurting out in spasms of pleasure so strong his body nearly shudders apart. He is dimly aware of Sherlock coming, too, of the warm rush within him, of Sherlock’s voice pitched much higher than usual, the weight of him slamming into John with force, his cock seeming to expand within John during his orgasm. 

When sparkles clear from his vision, John can feel Sherlock still rutting into him, but slower now, his cock already softer, but reluctant to let it end. After a bit he stops and pulls out of him, and John finally lets himself down onto his side. His release has left a darkly wet sticky spot but it’s on the towel. He pulls it out from under them and flings it in the direction of the loo. 

Sherlock lies down facing him, an arm and a leg curled around him, still breathing hard. “That was incredible,” he says, his chest heaving. 

“It really, really was,” John concurs, his words slurring. He shunts himself closer to Sherlock and pulls their bodies together, but before John can kiss him, Sherlock pulls back. 

“Wait just a moment,” he says, touching John’s face. He pushes himself out of bed and walks into the loo, his cock still partly hard, and John watches his perfect arse, admiring it in motion. Sherlock bends at the sink and rinses his mouth thoroughly, then pats off his face with a towel and comes back to bed, sliding over to John. “Bacteria,” he explains, as briefly as possible. “Don’t want to make you sick.” 

John is slightly abashed that he almost forgot about that, so blissed out from the sheer amplitude of his orgasm. “Right,” he says, putting his arm around Sherlock’s back and kissing him as deeply as he knows how. Sherlock accepts it hungrily, twining himself around John. The post-orgasmic haze is translating itself into a sort of contentment deeper than anything he’s known before, soaked deep into his bones. As the kiss ebbs off, he feels himself getting sleepy. 

“Tired?” Sherlock asks, his eyes midnight blue and beautiful. 

John smiles at him. “You wore me out,” he says. “Though I also just didn’t sleep that well. I woke up early to make breakfast before Mary was up.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says. “Nap, then.” 

“Will you stay, too?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods. “Whatever you want. Let me just get the blankets.” John reluctantly releases his grip on him and Sherlock goes to collect the stack. “It’s not even quite noon yet,” he says. “Sleep as long as you want to, and then we’ll order something to eat, or go out.”

He spreads a sheet out across the bed and John, followed by his thick duvet, then picks up the corner nearest to him and gets back into bed. They arrange themselves comfortably, John on his back with Sherlock’s arm curled over his chest, one leg nested between John’s, too, the warm softness of his cock against his hip, and John drifts off in the comfort of the knowledge that Sherlock is tangibly right here with him. He will never let anything or anyone take him away again. 

*** 

They’re just finishing Chinese, eaten straight from the boxes on the sofa once again, when Sherlock’s phone emits a faint series of beeps. Sherlock sits up immediately, keying a button with his left thumb and simultaneously reaching behind the sofa cushion. Before he can withdraw whatever it is, he relaxes, his eyes riveted to the screen of his phone. “It’s Lestrade,” he says. 

John can hear his steps on the stairs. “Is that an alarm from the counter?” he asks, curious. 

“Yes. I have it wired to activate the camera on the landing as soon as something triggers it.” Sherlock puts down the phone and looks up as Lestrade comes in. “Lestrade,” he says. 

Lestrade nods at both of them. “Good, I’m glad you’re here,” he says to John. “Need you both. There was an explosion just outside Westminster Abbey. Apparently that card turned up again. Same card, with the initials _J. M._ and nothing else.” 

“We’ll come,” Sherlock says. “Was anyone killed? 

“No, but three tourists were critically injured,” Lestrade tells him. “Are you ready now?” 

“Sure,” John says. “I’ll just put this stuff away.” He gets up and starts closing boxes and Sherlock helps him, taking away their cups and putting them in the sink, their movements harmonised and coordinated around each other’s as though they were never apart, as though the past three years never happened at all. 

At the crime scene, Sherlock grills a witness or two and wants to know where the card was found. Evidently the explosion was a crudely homemade thing, detonated by a mobile device. “Was the one on the bomb recovered?” Sherlock wants to know. “Let me see the pieces.” 

Lestrade shows them to the remnants of it, explaining that the phone itself took too much damage, though not as much as it was meant to. “It didn’t even detonate completely, which is why it’s over here. The bomb squad says it’s defused, though.” He squints at Sherlock against the bright daylight. “What do you reckon?” 

Sherlock twiddles the partially-burned card in his gloved fingers and shakes his head. “A ruse,” he says. “Just a distraction. We’re being kept busy while the real preparations are being made.” 

“By… Moriarty,” Lestrade says, sounding extremely dubious. When Sherlock only makes a neutral sound, Lestrade presses it. “Who is dead, isn’t he? Your brother told me he is.”

“Yes.” The word is clipped. 

“So what are we dealing with, then?” Lestrade wants to know. 

“Someone using Moriarty’s name and face,” Sherlock says. He glances at John, who shrugs back at him, not caring if Sherlock wants to fill Lestrade in. 

“Right, like who, specifically?” Lestrade demands. “Do you know?” 

“We do,” John puts in, trailing off. “Sherlock…?”

Sherlock looks around and lowers his voice. “Look – you’ve got to keep this extremely quiet,” he says. “I mean that. Don’t tell any of your people. It’s Mary.” 

They both watch as Lestrade’s expression goes from confused to comprehending to shocked. “ _What?!_ ” He looks back and forth between them. “Are you serious?”

John moves in a little closer, his own voice low and terse. “Yes. She’s the one who shot Sherlock, and she’s been having a go at trying to kill me lately, too. We’ve got some ideas in terms of trapping her, but we’re still trying to figure out her plan. Sherlock’s got her on camera, purchasing these very cards,” he says. “But we absolutely can’t let her know we’re on to her, or else it’s game over as far as catching her goes.”

“Possibly particularly for John,” Sherlock adds dryly. “So do shut up about it.” 

“Right, okay,” Lestrade says, still sounding stunned. “I mean, I just – I can’t _believe_ that! Your own wife!” 

John winces. “Yeah. I know.” 

“Christ, John – I’m sorry,” Lestrade says. 

John catches a fleeting glimpse of the twist of Sherlock’s lips and says, “Don’t be. Honestly, we’ve basically been separated for the past six months already. It never got off the ground, really. And I’m much happier this way.” He clears his throat and ponders saying something about the two of them, but the moment doesn’t quite feel right. 

“Okay,” Lestrade says, accepting this but obviously dubious. “Well – anything you need, you just let me know.” 

“We don’t know who Mary employs,” Sherlock says under his breath. “But check traffic cams, CCTV, et cetera, and see if you can pinpoint the time when the bomb was placed here and maybe you’ll get a face to chase.” 

Lestrade holds a finger up as his phone buzzes. “Lestrade,” he says, and listens. “Right, I’ll look into it. Thanks.” He disconnects and looks at them both. “Nothing huge, but funny that it should have happened at the same time – they just found a body. Like I said, it’s not huge news – it’s a rougher bit of Clapham, so it could be related to some petty crime.”

Sherlock frowns. “What sort of body?” he asks. 

John looks at him, wondering what he’s thinking. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t know what he wants to ask, exactly. 

Lestrade is reading something on his phone. “Okay, preliminary report’s coming in. It’s a kid, nineteen years old. Goes by the name of Adam Gupta, according to his ID. Apparently he did freelance work of some sort. Technical stuff. Computers and that.” 

Sherlock’s frown deepens and he takes Lestrade’s phone from him. John goes to crowd in over his shoulder, closer than he ever would have in public before, but Lestrade’s not paying any attention to him. “What sort of technical work, precisely?” Sherlock is asking. 

“I don’t know. You’re welcome to go and take a look,” Lestrade says. “If you give me my phone back, I’ll text you the address.” 

“No need; I’ve already done it,” Sherlock says, typing rapidly. He hands the phone back. “Come on, John.” 

He strides away without waiting, scattering a flock of pigeons gathered on the square, John squarely in step beside him, and the quirked smile Sherlock proffers says that he knew precisely that John would be right there with him. It warms John to the core, even with the murder to think about. “Do you think this is her, then?” he asks, keeping his voice down. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock says, raising his arm for a taxi. “It would explain why this relatively harmless explosion was staged. Public, high profile location, tourists are more sensational than locals. Gives us something to do while she takes care of business, possibly.” 

“And he’s a tech guy, the victim,” John says. “Are you thinking that this has something to do with the broadcasts?” 

Sherlock’s eyes gleam as he pulls the door of the cab open for him. “You know me so well, it’s like you’re in my head,” he says, and John grins and climbs into the car. Sherlock tells the driver their location, then quietly removes his left glove and puts his hand down on John’s, between them on the seat. 

John glances at him and sees that he’s looking out the window, his lips set, and hides a smile, turning his hand palm upward to slip his fingers between Sherlock’s. He never thought that Sherlock would ever do something so arguably sentimental as this on a case before, but the proof is there in his hand. He squeezes a bit and rubs Sherlock’s thumb nail with his own. 

The crime scene is small, only Donovan and the new sergeant, Wesley, working it. She rolls her eyes at both of them and holds up the police tape without a word. Lestrade clearly called ahead, John thinks. They go inside, where Anderson is processing in his slow, methodical way. He’s improved over the years, as anxious for Sherlock’s approval as he used to scorn it years ago, to John’s amusement and Sherlock’s irritation. He gets himself out of the way with a minimum of kowtowing to Sherlock and leaves them with the body. John goes to the victim, slumped backwards in a desk chair. Sherlock walks around to the far side and looks down, waiting for his assessment. 

It’s fairly obvious, really: a single cut across the jugular has left a messy bleed-out down the front of the victim’s shirt. The murder weapon is on the floor in a marked evidence bag: a steak knife of the sort that anyone could own. “Cause of death seems obvious,” Sherlock says. 

“I agree.” John points at the knife. “You think the killer found the knife here?” 

“I’ll check the kitchen drawers,” Sherlock says. “Check for any other potential causes, though, just in case.” 

“Of course.” John sets about examining the young man’s eyes and mouth, prodding along his sides. He’s not a pathologist and a cursory surface examination like this won’t show much, but he’s learned a lot just working beside Sherlock after all this time. No swelling of the organs or the tongue, no obvious bruising, and no defensive wounds: either he knew his attacker or was taken by surprise. A blood test will show whether he was intoxicated or drugged, but it does seem pretty straightforward. 

Sherlock comes back. “Yes, the knife was his,” he says. “The killer might have been hiding here, armed and waiting for him.” He looks around and finds the boy’s wallet in an evidence bag and removes it with gloved fingers. “Aha.” 

“What?” John goes over. It’s a business card, cheaply printed on flimsy cardboard. It has the victim’s name, self-proclaimed as an ‘IT Expert’ and advertising services in multi-media, powerpoint, photoshop, and there, at the bottom of the card, John sees it: film and film-editing. 

“Bingo,” Sherlock says softly. 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

Sherlock takes a look at the laptop, only to discover that the hard drive has been removed completely. “We may have more luck if we can get our hands on Mary’s,” he muses in the taxi. “Where are we going, by the way? Are you going back to the flat?” 

John grimaces. “I probably should,” he says. “I’d much rather stay, but…”

“No, I agree,” Sherlock says. He glances at the driver and lowers his voice. “I’m worried about you. Do me a favour and turn your ringer on especially high tonight. Just in case. I’m going to stay up and keep an eye on the flat. Not that I’ll be able to see what’s happening inside, but still. At least I’d know if she tried burning the flat down with you inside it or something.” 

“All right,” John agrees. “If it makes you feel better, I will.” He pauses, then says spontaneously, “I don’t want to go back just yet, though. Could we have dinner together?” 

Sherlock smiles at his window before turning to look at him. “Of course. Where would you like to go?” 

“Anywhere,” John says. 

Sherlock’s brows come together. “Nonsense, that’s not a choice,” he says. “What do you feel like?” 

John leans over. “You,” he says, lowering his voice. 

Instead of telling him to focus on the discussion at hand or something, Sherlock smiles again. It’s his small, v-shaped smile, his eyes soft. “Again?” he asks. 

“Always,” John vows. “It never goes away, you know. I want you all the time.”

“John…” Sherlock’s eyes drift halfway closed, his pulse thudding visibly in his neck. 

Reluctantly John makes himself return to the subject at hand. Otherwise they’ll get carried away right here in the taxi. He takes Sherlock’s hand instead. “But I suppose it’s just going to be dinner for now. Where do _you_ want to eat?” 

“Somewhere where no one will recognise us,” Sherlock says, his voice still lowered. 

John’s phone beeps with a text. It’s from Mary. _You still out on the case?_ He shows it to Sherlock. “How much do you want to bet she’s trying to gauge whether she’s got time to replace the cameras?” he asks. 

“It’s extremely likely,” Sherlock allows. “In that case, we’d better give her some time.” He leans forward to address the driver. “Excuse me. Do you have any recommendations for Indian restaurants? Somewhere not too central; we’d like to get off the beaten path.” 

The driver considers. “My brother has a restaurant in Chiswick. Very good food. Good prices. They have a buffet or you can order from the menu.”

“Chiswick is perfect,” Sherlock says. “It’s a little further. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“No, no!” The driver waves a hand over his shoulder. “Good choice! I’ll take you there!”

John texts Mary back. _Afraid so, yes. It’s going late. I’m sorry!_ “Great,” he tells Sherlock. Chiswick is indeed perfect; it’s on the opposite side of the city from Mary’s flat and considerably west of Westminster, too. 

The restaurant is dark and intimately lit. Sherlock spots a corner table in the back and requests it, and they are seated cati-corner on cushioned benches. They scan the menu and decide to order from it, selecting a combo for two that has all the things they both like best. Their order is taken and Sherlock takes his hand under the table again. It’s such a small thing and John’s honestly never been big on hand-holding, but this is different from every single other relationship he’s ever had. It’s the most exciting, most heart-pounding love affair he’s ever been in and he feels as though his heart is on fire. Every small touch is amplified, every smile worth savouring and filing away in his memory to bring back and gloat over years later. He isn’t remotely nervous, yet his stomach is nonetheless filled with butterflies. He wants to lean over and snog Sherlock right here, propriety be damned, but manages to suppress the urge. He feels absolutely dizzy with it, feeling the stars practically radiating from his eyes as they meet Sherlock’s. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, rather apologetically. “I just – it doesn’t go away, does it? You would think, especially right after we’ve – been together, that it would die down or something, but it just increases. I want you more and more by the day. By the minute.” 

John’s fingers tighten. “Me too,” he says. “Exactly that.” 

Sherlock looks around, then leans over and kisses him once, chastely, his fingers still tangled with John’s. “I don’t know if I can allow you to go back to Mary tonight after all…”

“We said, though,” John says, feeling weak with the temptation to go back to Baker Street and spend the night with Sherlock. 

“I know,” Sherlock says. He takes a deep breath, leaning back against the wall behind him. Just then, his phone emits the same series of beeps as earlier. With interest, Sherlock holds it up for John to see, and John watches as the camera on the landing activates itself. They watch Mary enter the dim entranceway, clearly visible as herself. Amusingly, it doesn’t seem to occur to her that Sherlock might have set up his own surveillance, and they watch her fasten a camera in what appears to be a rather obvious place to John’s eye, at least compared to Sherlock’s very-much hidden places. She passes the one on the landing without so much as looking up and makes her way upstairs. Sherlock watches her go. “Do you want to do the pregnancy test business tomorrow?” 

“Sure,” John agrees. “Do we have everything we need for that?” 

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock assures him. “There is a certain compound I could make. We would just need to dissolve it in some liquid.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” John says thoughtfully. “I mean, tea or coffee is easy enough. I could do it tomorrow morning.” 

“Perfect.” Sherlock hesitates, then clearly decides not to point out that it would mean John coming by the flat after to pick it up, nor the enormously diminished chances of John actually leaving again after that point would likely be. 

Their naan arrives just then and gives them something to distract themselves with. John breathes deeply and tries to cool himself down a bit. 

The door alert goes off again toward the end of the meal and they watch Mary leave just as stealthily as she arrived. After they’ve eaten, they wander along the pavement, neither one of them making the first move to hail a taxi. Rather, Sherlock puts an arm around his shoulders and John responds immediately by putting his own around Sherlock’s waist, narrow even through the added bulk of his coat. John’s chest glows, and suddenly it’s just not enough. He spots a darkened alley, checks for CCTV cameras, and pulls Sherlock into it, pushing him up against the stone wall of some store or other and putting his mouth on Sherlock’s, his hands on his hips. Sherlock kisses back at once, exhaling through his nose and sinking into the kiss with at least as much relief as John feels at being connected like this again. They kiss and kiss, and John can already feel himself hardening, like a teenager. His body is just so wired to respond to Sherlock, and he wasn’t completely at parade rest during dinner already. They’re not exactly checking themselves now, either – Sherlock’s hands are wandering dangerously low on his back and John is pressing himself up against his lithe form, arms wrapped around his neck. Sherlock makes a sound in his throat and pulls John harder against him, his hands directly on his arse now, and John breaks away, breathing hard. 

“We can’t have sex right here in this alley,” he says, feeling the flush of desire flooding his cheeks. 

Sherlock swallows, apparently trying to get himself together. “Then we’ll have to go back to the flat,” he says. 

John’s head nods so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Deal. Taxi. Come on.” 

Sherlock doesn’t even let go of his hand out on the pavement again, hailing a taxi and adjusting his coat primly. The first cab they see slows at the kerb and they tumble into it together. Sherlock passes the driver a folded note – John doesn’t see how much – and says, “Baker Street, 221B. Drive and ignore us.”

“Yes sir,” the driver says, keeping his eyes from the mirror. “I see nothing.” 

“Good.” Sherlock turns back to John and presses him into the back of the seat, kissing him with abandon, half climbing onto him and John gives it back just as hard, their coats too thick and in the way, but perhaps that’s just as well. They snog the rest of the way to Baker Street, then pull themselves together as the driver announces their arrival. Sherlock pays with a very large tip, then says to John as they’re getting out, “Don’t forget the cameras. We’ll have to behave very normally until I’ve taken them down. We’ll check our own to see where she put the others.” 

John groans. “Right,” he says. “Holding my coat in front of me, it is.” 

Sherlock snickers, the laugh low and very much aroused as he shuts the door after John. He straightens up, composing his face into neutrality, and goes to unlock the door. John keeps himself a few paces back, hands stuck casually into his pockets. Once they’re inside, he pulls off his coat and carries it in front of him to disguise what feels like a nightstick in his jeans. Sherlock keeps his coat on until they’re upstairs, not looking at the front hall camera that looks completely obvious to John now that he knows it’s there. He lets his eyes drift over it but doesn’t linger, following Sherlock up. 

In the sitting room, Sherlock goes to the laptop, angling it toward the window. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” John calls back, wandering into the kitchen. “We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us.” 

“Please.” Sherlock sounds focused on something else, which is perfect. 

John glances around the kitchen. There is a camera nestled in beside the house plant next to the sink, the same make as the one downstairs. He keeps himself on the other side of the table, his back to it as he lays his coat over the end chair and plugs in the kettle, checking the water level. 

He hears Sherlock moving in the sitting room and looks over. He’s climbing onto one of the desk chairs, still in his coat. “John,” he says. “Come and see this.” 

John goes over. “What are you doing up there?” 

Sherlock points. “Look at this. A camera. Moriarty is spying on me again.”

John frowns. “How long do you think that’s been there?” 

“No idea,” Sherlock says. “There’s no way of telling.” He takes it down and rips the wiring out the back side, causing blue sparks and a bit of smoke to fly upward. 

“Careful,” John warns. “Don’t set fire to the flat or you’ll have to live in one of your boltholes for the foreseeable future.”

“I wonder if there are any others,” Sherlock says, crossing into the kitchen. 

John makes a show of looking around, then spotting it. “Oh – is this one?” he asks, feigning stupidity. (Once upon a time, Sherlock would have said rude things about it not being feigned.)

Sherlock snorts. “He must have hired a complete amateur to do this,” he says derisively. “That’s barely even hidden! Destroy it, would you? I’m going to check downstairs. Check your room, too.”

John has to stifle a laugh at this, and sets about checking upstairs, where he finds another camera partially hidden behind the wall clock. He yanks out the cable and stomps on it. 

They quickly and efficiently disable all of the cameras, and then Sherlock goes to the laptop and opens another program. John goes over to see. “This scans for any signals transmitting nearby,” Sherlock says under his breath. “All of those obvious cameras might have been a trap. Perhaps she _is_ cleverer than it seemed just now.”

They wait, watching the scan as it progresses, but it comes up empty. “Evidently not,” John says with a smirk. He puts his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulls his head back, bending over it. Sherlock smiles and reaches up for him, their mouths coming together messily. Sherlock somehow gets to his feet during it, turning around in John’s arms and winding his own tightly around his back. John’s arousal had flagged a little during the search, but comes roaring back in full force now, his cock stiff and heavy with want, pushing against the material of his jeans. He can barely breathe, his entire frame trembling with it, and he can feel Sherlock, just as hard against him, his mouth hot and panting into John’s. “Bedroom, now,” he says, his eyelids so heavy that they’re only open a slit. 

Sherlock makes a mangled sound of fervent agreement and they get themselves down the corridor and into the room, hands all over each other. They strip each other in seconds and Sherlock seizes him by the middle and backs toward the bed, pulling John onto him. They kiss and writhe against each other and John drowns in the feeling of it, in not only being enormously, skin-splittingly turned on, but completely head-over-heels in love. It’s the wrong time for this to have happened – he knows he’s still married, not that Mary’s vows mean a damned thing, and for all he knows, he could still be expecting a child with her, but it doesn’t bloody _matter_. This is unstoppable and he’s so sickeningly happy he feels like he could explode. 

“I love you,” he says into Sherlock’s neck, kissing it with his lips and tongue and a scrape of teeth. “I love you so much I don’t even know what to do with it all. Tell me what you want. I want to do everything for you, for the rest of my life.”

“Me too,” Sherlock gasps, his chest heaving, hands conveying incredible amounts of tenderness and passion that no one else has ever seen in him, John feels certain. “I feel – all of that, like it’s so much that I can’t possibly process it. And right now, I want you inside me. Now. Don’t wait. I can take it. I need to be joined to you again.” 

“Yes!” It’s more breath than voice. John’s hand scrabbles for the lube and finds it, though he has enough grasp of his common sense left to know that Sherlock can’t possibly take him without any preparation. He’ll do a good job. A quick one, maybe, but a thorough one. “Like this, on your back?” he asks, sitting up to yank off the cap, tossing it in the general direction of the night table. 

“Yeah – like the first time, on the sofa – ”

Sherlock’s hands are on his arse, their cocks still touching as John rubs lube between his fingers, rocking against him. He gets Sherlock’s legs apart and slips a finger into him right away, rubbing at his hole and stretching him. Sherlock opens his legs even further, his knees drawn up, panting and looking completely wanton, his face flushed and rosy, his incredibly kissable mouth open, eyes dark with desire. 

“More,” he commands. “Please, John, I can – oh – ahh – ” He bites his lip and pushes himself down on John’s two fingers, his cock jerking as John presses into his prostate, locating it on the first go. He is a doctor, after all, he thinks smugly. 

He fingers Sherlock thoroughly, his own cock nearly purple and bobbing obscenely. “Good?” he asks roughly, his throat tight with arousal so thick he could choke on it. 

Sherlock opens his starry eyes. “Fuck me,” he says distinctly. “Please. I need you – ”

John doesn’t even try to resist. He’s so hard that his cock doesn’t even need guiding as he holds himself up over Sherlock, loving the grip of Sherlock’s fingers on his tensed triceps and pushes into him in one long stroke. He only pauses for a second, both of them moaning loudly, and then he starts in earnest. He thrusts into Sherlock in long, steady, full-length strokes, from the tip of his aching cock down to his balls, in and out, hating to pull out but loving the push back inside more than anything he’s ever felt, loves the moment of feeling completely connected to Sherlock again. Their eyes are on each other’s and John thinks for a fleeting second that even if Mary were to burst in here with a gun, he wouldn’t stop. Her bullet couldn’t even harm them, he thinks. Surely what they have is bulletproof, sealing them in some special bubble of their own reality, untouchable to the rest of the world. 

Sherlock is trembling violently beneath him, his cock oozing a long strand of moisture onto his lower belly, his eyes on John’s, his face open and completely trusting and sure, and just seeing his face like that makes John’s heart want to punch its way right through his chest. He goes harder still, his thrusts shorter jabs now, panting so hard he’s nearly hyperventilating. It feels so good that he can feel it everywhere in his body, washing over him. Sherlock’s body is spasming rhythmically around his cock, tightening and releasing and tightening, growing tighter, and John realises half a second before he says it that he’s right on the edge. “John – ” Sherlock’s voice rises, sounding almost panicked, and John takes his cock in hand and rubs it hard, his fist squeezing around his wet, exposed head, and Sherlock’s breath gusts out, sucks in, and stops, his entire body twisting up off the sheets as he comes with a cry and a gush of release so hard it hits him in the collarbone, then comes again. His hole clenches so hard around John as he does that John’s rhythm slips and he shouts out, his cock pumping furiously into that tight grip in a series of thrusts so hard he might be breaking Sherlock in half. He comes even as he’s doing it, unable to stop, rutting into his own sticky flood and relishing it as it washes over him, erupting again and again.

He isn’t even aware of when it finishes, turning into one blindingly phenomenal flood of pleasure. Some time later he finds himself facedown on top of Sherlock, panting raggedly into his shoulder, unable to speak, still buried inside him. Sherlock’s chest is heaving beneath him, their stomachs pushing against each other’s as they pant. John feels like he’s died and been reborn again, like every part of his body is new made and perfect, one complete being with Sherlock. He lies there trying to catch his breath, his heart and body both still on fire, and knows that he has never truly loved before. Not like this. Never like this. 

“I’m not going back to the flat tonight,” he says, feeling himself heavy and limp on Sherlock. “I absolutely refuse to leave you now.” 

Sherlock is still breathing hard. He swallows and puts a hand on the back of John’s head. “Good,” he says, not even trying to argue it. “I cannot possibly let you go now.” 

“I’ll text her,” John says, closing his eyes. “Later.” 

“In a few minutes,” Sherlock agrees, his hand stroking over John’s back. “For now, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” His lips find John’s head and kiss it. “Don’t you dare go anywhere.” 

“I’m not,” John says, and it might as well be a vow. 

*** 

John wakes early, drags Sherlock into the shower with him where they kiss sleepily in the hot water. They wash each other’s hair and bodies and toward the end, when Sherlock has woken sufficiently, rub each other into a vastly more gentle orgasm than the night before. 

Sherlock comes, shuddering through it in his arms, and after, when he can speak again, says into his neck, “I dream of having a life where this isn’t even extraordinary. Where it’s simply commonplace, everyday. I can’t even imagine that right now.” 

“Neither can I, because it will always be extraordinary,” John tells him, and finds his mouth again. 

He’s on his way back to the flat now, his chest aching, feeling the distance keenly. They’ll see each other again quite soon, though – Sherlock made up the compound for Mary after breakfast and gave it to him in a tiny vial that’s hidden in his inner coat pocket along with one other small but very important item. He texted Mary last night before he fell asleep, explaining that they were up to their eyes with the Westminster Abbey explosion, interviewing witnesses and that, and that he didn’t want to wake her by coming in at half-three in the morning and would crash at Baker Street. He texted again early in the morning, apologising a second time. She wrote back soon after, saying only, _Not a problem. Are you coming home today?_ He responded in the positive, then texted again to say that he was on his way a bit later. He gets the cab to let him off at the Caffe Nero and purchases two lattes, one decaf. He takes them both over to the counter and adds, with his back to the window just in case, a packet of sugar and the contents of the vial to Mary’s. (“It’s very strong,” Sherlock said, giving it to him. “She’ll only need to drink a few sips for it to knock her out for at least half an hour.” John had raised his eyebrows. “And if she drinks it all?” Sherlock’s eyes had gleamed. “Up to two hours.”) He puts the lid back on securely and carries both coffees to the flat. 

The ice, of course, is gone, though a few of the icicles are still dangling from the eaves. He ducks under them and juggles the two lattes while letting himself in. Mary is up, sitting at the kitchen table in her nightgown and dressing gown, which is hanging open, probably too small to tie over her belly now. She looks up. “Hi!” 

John manufactures a smile. “Hello,” he says. He proffers the latte. “Peace offering?” 

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” Mary tells him, looking rather pleased regardless. “It’s decaf?” 

“Of course,” John assures her. “With one sugar added.” He takes it over to her and bends to kiss her on the cheek before retreating to one of the chairs. Sherlock should be somewhere nearby by now, but they didn’t want to be seen leaving Baker Street together. 

“You remembered.” Mary beams gratefully at him. “How’s the case going?” 

John takes in her bright eyes and thinks of the glass shard, the spaghetti, the icicle. It’s almost as if she has a split personality disorder, but then, she is quite probably a psychopath and a phenomenal liar. Albeit, he reminds himself, one who really genuinely did want him to love her. Even if she decided that his infidelity meant he needed to die, it hasn’t changed that about her. “It’s going pretty well,” he says carefully. “We’re starting to make some progress. How was your day yesterday?” 

For a moment, the briefest of shadows crosses her face, but then she shrugs a little and says, “Fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. I picked up a few things at the store. We were out of milk.” 

John thinks of the dead nineteen-year-old with blood soaked all down his front and wonders if she currently has his hard drive and a newly spliced-together video of Moriarty’s face somewhere on it. He nods, neutral. “That’s right, we were. Clever of you to remember.” He feels as though they’re both just uttering rehearsed lines, neither of them thinking about them at all. He picks up his own latte and sips, hoping it will inspire her to drink her own. She’s not going to figure it out and refuse to drink it, is she? He thinks of saying something to prompt her but immediately rejects it as too obvious. “Have you eaten breakfast?” he asks instead. 

Mary nods. “I just had a slice of toast. Nothing fancy. You?” 

John nods, too. “Yeah, same sort of thing.” He pulls one of the papers over. “A quiet Sunday is exactly what I’m planning on.” 

“Unless Sherlock needs you for the case,” Mary says, very evenly, but she picks up the latte and begins to drink it. 

John flicks his eyes up, checking for any sign of reaction to the flavour or something, but she just sips again. “No, I told him that all day yesterday was quite enough, unless it’s something particularly urgent,” he says, making his tone dry. “I need a day off before I go back to the clinic tomorrow.” 

Mary laughs. “Fair enough. I didn’t think you ever said no to him.” 

Is there a hint of edge to her voice? John decides to ignore it. “This is delicious, but not all that hot,” he says, drinking a lot of his latte in one go. 

“Mine, too,” Mary says. “And yeah – I prefer to drink it when it’s actually hot, too.” She follows his lead, taking several more large swallows and setting down the cup. She touches the corner of her mouth as though dabbing away foam, then does it again. A confused expression comes over her face. 

John frowns at her. “Everything all right?” he asks. “You look a bit… odd.” 

Mary slumps forward and then tumbles out of her chair and onto the floor. 

John is on his feet instantly, assuming there is surveillance here in the flat, too. “Mary! Oh my God! Are you all right?” He gets to her side and checks her pulse, simultaneously pulling out his phone. He dials 999 and requests an ambulance, then texts Sherlock the single word _Now_ before feigning a call, telling him what’s happened and reacting with ‘surprise’ when Sherlock happens to be in the neighbourhood. 

Sherlock arrives before the ambulance, slipping in through the unlocked front door. “Is she all right?” he asks, as though terribly concerned. 

John nods him toward the end table where her laptop is sitting. “I have no idea,” he says. “I called an ambulance – they’d better get here on the double! She’s pregnant, for God’s sake!” 

Sherlock pulls out a cloth bag and puts the laptop inside. “Does she have a book at the moment? I’ll just put together a bag for her, in case she has to stay.” 

“Yes, the novel on the coffee table there,” John says, pointing at it. 

The paramedics arrive and load Mary into the ambulance. Sherlock made an arrangement with someone at the Royal London, and when they arrive, the paramedics melt away and leave them with the one supervising physician, who is apparently in the know. One of Mycroft’s, Sherlock said earlier. “I’ll be down the hall,” Sherlock says, lifting the laptop bag in reminder. “Come and tell me as soon as you know.” 

“I will,” John says. Together he and the other doctor get Mary’s dressing gown off, the nightgown unbuttoned. She’s wearing underwear, to his relief. It makes this feel like slightly less of an invasion of privacy, though of course it is. (But what choice does he have, given Mary’s lies? It’s supposedly his child. Surely he has a right to know.) He gazes down at her. A hollow rubber belly is strapped around her midsection, held in place with a thick panel of elastic at the back. John’s hands stop moving and his first thought is, _Really, Mary? Really???_ The second is sheer relief. There is nothing binding him to this woman any more, then. He can truly be free of her, and he thanks every deity he has ever heard of that they were not so foolish as to have created a child together. “Thank God,” he says softly, aloud. 

The other doctor looks at him. “Not surprised, then,” he comments. When John shakes his head, he adds, shrewdly, “And not disappointed, either.” 

“No,” John says bluntly. “Not in the slightest. Let’s get it off her. How long do you think she’ll be out?” 

“She drank about half the latte?” The doctor asks. “I’d say about an hour, then. Maybe a little more. What should I do with this?” he asks, tapping the false belly. 

“I don’t care. Throw it away. Donate it to a drama program somewhere.” Together they turn Mary onto her side and John gets the hooks in the back undone, wondering how she managed to get it on by herself. Perhaps she never took it off. His theory seems to confirm itself when he sees the skin beneath the elastic, pale, clammy, and troubled with acne. Clearly she hasn’t taken it off in months, not even to shower. He spends a moment briefly admiring her commitment to the cover, even as the rest of him fills with absolute loathing for her for the same reason. 

They get her onto her back and covered again. John ties the belt of the dressing gown loosely around her middle. The other doctor watches, then asks curiously, “So – any ideas why she did this? I mean, it’s not unheard-of, but to keep it from her own husband this way… when do you suppose she was planning to reveal the lie?” 

“No idea,” John says. “But she was running out of time, obviously. Her ‘due date’ was about three weeks from now. Perhaps she was planning to feign a stillbirth or something. I really don’t know.”

“Has she shown any signs of being mentally disturbed at all?” the doctor asks in concern. “I could recommend a therapist, if you think…” 

John thinks briefly of telling him about Mary’s criminal past and present, the fact (unconfirmed fact, but they’re fairly certain) that she just slit a teenager’s throat yesterday, and decides against it. “We’ll talk about it,” he says. “Thanks a lot. I’m going to let my friend know what’s what. If you could just stay with her, and let me know if she wakes before I’m back, that would be terrific. I’ll just be down the corridor.” 

The other doctor nods. “I’m just going to grab a coffee. I’ll be back in a moment.” He points at something on the desk. “That’s the other thing your friend requested. Have you used a device like it before?” 

John looks at it. “No, but I grasp the principle.” 

“Any troubles, just let me know,” the doctor tells him, and goes. 

John goes over and inspects the injector. He takes the tracker Sherlock gave him and checks that it’s activated before sliding it into the right compartment. It clicks into place. He crosses back to Mary and finds a vein high in her forearm. Usually giving needles or taking blood is more the department of a nurse, but not in field medicine. He injects the tracker smoothly and Mary’s still features don’t even flinch. He finds a plaster and a cotton ball and tamps it down, as though they took blood. That done, he leaves the room, walking down the corridor to the right. His shoulders feel ten times lighter.

He finds Sherlock hunched over Mary’s laptop in a small, empty office filled with a number of filing cabinets and desk chairs. He appears to be deep in concentration, but looks up the instant John walks in. “So?” he asks, his face intense. 

John shakes his head. “A fake,” he says. 

Their eyes meet and Sherlock gets up, his hands firm on John’s shoulders. “And – how do you feel?” he asks, no less intensely. 

“Oh, God – so relieved, Sherlock – just so – ” He stops, and Sherlock puts his arms around him now, holding him. 

“I’m glad,” he says, his voice low. “I was so afraid you would be horribly disappointed.” 

“I’m not. I just feel free.” John puts his arms around Sherlock’s middle and holds on, soaking in his proximity again. 

Sherlock kisses the top of his head. “I’m so glad,” he says again. “And it makes things much simpler now. Did you get the tracker in place?” 

“Easily,” John says. “It should be broadcasting her signal now already.” He nods at the laptop. “Find anything?” 

Sherlock pulls away, his eyes gleaming. “Rather,” he says. “Come and see this.” 

John goes with him and looks over his shoulder at the screen. “What am I looking at?” he asks. The screen he sees means little to him. 

Sherlock points. “See that?” He clicks on it and the symbol expands, reading _moriarty2.mov_. “That’s a video file. It’s been removed, as of last night.” He points at the time stamp on the screen. 

“Moriarty2,” John says. “You think she had the victim make another short video of him?” 

“It certainly seems that way,” Sherlock says. “I might not have found it if it hadn’t been for…” he looks around. “Where is he? He was just here a moment ago.”

John looks around. “Who?”

“Mycroft’s hacker,” Sherlock explains. “Kyle, maybe? I don’t know.” 

“I thought it was Pete,” John says, feeling the corners of his mouth trying to smile. 

“Who knows. Anyway, he was the one who found this. He went somewhere to do something or get something. I don’t know. Look at this, though,” Sherlock says, clicking onto a page of search history. 

John reads the list aloud. “ _Tower Bridge, Tower Bridge architecture, Tower Bridge structural weakness, Tower Bridge South Bank exit_ … Good lord, do you think she’s planning to blow it up or something?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise. “It could be,” he says. “Though there was also this.” He scrolls further down. “ _Events: Ambassador Whitfield. Events: Houses of Parliament._ There’s nothing more than that, but it gives us a clue, at least. Ambassador Whitfield,” he adds, pulling out his phone and showing it to John, “is our government’s diplomatic representative to the Persian Gulf.” 

“Interesting,” John says, frowning. “Do you suppose it’s related to all the Tower Bridge stuff?” 

“I have no… oh, hello,” Sherlock says as a bespectacled boy comes in. He can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen at most, John thinks. “John, this is… the hacker I was telling you about.” 

“Hi,” John says. “So is it Pete or Kyle? Sherlock couldn’t remember.” 

“It’s Jared,” the kid says, glancing at Sherlock. 

“Jared. Yes. Of course,” Sherlock says smoothly. “Anyway – were you able to get that sorted, with…”

“I was just calling my mum,” the kid says. 

“Right.” Sherlock sounds awkward and John decides to save him. 

“Listen,” he says, “is there any way of knowing where the file was sent?” 

“Sure,” Jared says, sounding surprised. “We just have to get into her email.” 

“I don’t know her password,” John says. “I imagine you might have a way around that, though?” 

That gets them a shrug. “We’ll see,” the kid says vaguely. He slips into the chair and starts typing. “What’s her email address?”

John gives him the only one he’s ever known for Mary and warns the kid that she could well have more. Would certainly have more, he revises mentally. “Can you just check the computer and see what was sent from it?” 

“Not really.” The kid types rapidly. “Any guesses on the password?” 

Sherlock gives John a quick, unreadable look. “Try maryelizabethwatson, all one word,” he says quietly. 

It works. “That’s unbelievable,” John says, feeling stunned. “Why would she choose something so obvious?” 

“Wishful thinking,” Sherlock tells him shortly. 

A throat is cleared from the doorway and John turns around. The doctor is standing there, looking hesitant. “Sorry, Doctor Watson,” he says. “I thought I would let you know that I think she’s beginning to wake.” 

“Ah,” John says. He looks at Sherlock, who nods at him with his chin in silent acquiescence. “I’ll see you later, then,” he says, not knowing when that will be, but it’s fine. He has a part to play just now. He hurries after the other doctor back to Mary’s room down the corridor. Once inside, the doctor pulls the door closed with himself on the other side of it and leaves them alone. 

The bed rails on Mary’s right side are still off from earlier when they were turning her. She is stirring just a little, her eyelids fluttering. John goes to perch on the side of her bed and takes her hand in both of his. He says her name. Her eyelids blink a few times and then open, looking confused. “John?” Her voice is scratchy. “Where am – ” She looks around, seeing the equipment, the walls, the blood oxygen monitor clipped to her left middle finger. That same hand goes to her midsection, the belly gone, and John sees the full realisation hit her all at once. Her pulse accelerates visibly, panic and fear flooding her face, her mouth opening. 

Before she can speak, John cuts in, careful to keep his voice extremely gentle. “It’s all right, Mary,” he says, still holding her other hand. “The truth is out now. I know there’s no baby. It’s all right. I understand.” 

He sees her struggling internally, trying to suss out the situation and figure out what to say first. “What happened?” she asks, instead of responding to what he said. 

“You passed out at the kitchen table,” John says, still very gentle. “One moment you were fine, the next second you had fallen on the floor. I called an ambulance and we rushed you in. You’re all right. Looks like your blood pressure just dipped for some reason, and I suppose you hadn’t eaten much, so your blood sugar was a little low, too. They’re testing for hypoglycaemia, just in case, though I don’t really think you are. How are you feeling?” 

Her struggle grows. He can almost see the question in her head, wanting to ask directly if he drugged her. Mary swallows, blinking, the lines of her neck and around her mouth taut and unhappy. “Like crap,” she says, probably quite honestly. “John – I – ” Her hand goes to her flat belly again. “I don’t know what – ”

“Shh,” John soothes. “I told you, I understand why you did it.” He tightens his fingers a little. “You were afraid, that’s all. Afraid you might lose me. I don’t know why you ever thought that, when we were about to be married. I don’t know what I did to give you doubt, and it upsets me that you did doubt me like that, that you thought you had to invent a pregnancy to tighten our bond. And I’m angry that you lied again – but I understand. It was insecurity and fear, and a desire to make sure I would always stay.” 

A film of tears comes into her eyes and she blinks rapidly, still trying to sort out what to say, what not to say. A number of different expressions cross her face, with fear as the recurrent one. John realises that the compound Sherlock gave her is still in her system and that her filters probably aren’t working as well as usual just yet. “John, I – do you mean that, that it’s all right?” she asks, the tears slipping from the corners of her eyes and streaking over her temples and into her hair. 

“Of course I do,” he tells her. “Why would you think I don’t?” 

Now he catches a flash of anger, gone in a second, and wonders if she’s thinking of the night when she came to Baker Street – if she actually did. (But Sherlock found cameras after that night – is that not proof in and of itself? No – she could have come another time, he reminds himself.) Now guilt makes an appearance, uneasy and unhappy. “Because I – ” Mary stops abruptly, so much so that John wonders if she was actually on the brink of confessing the attempted murders. “All I wanted was you, you know,” she says instead, looking at their hands. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted since we met.” 

John smiles, not meaning any part of it. “You have me,” he says. “So when you’re feeling up to it, let’s go home and start over, fresh. No lies this time. All right?” 

Mary’s lips tighten worriedly. “You’re not angry?” she asks, her eyes darting up to his. “It was such a big lie… I was going to tell you she was stillborn. I’m so – ”

John waits, but she stops short and doesn’t say it, doesn’t apologise. He lets the silence draw out just long enough to get uncomfortable. It makes him angry. Even _this_ , she won’t apologise for. Not even now. “I told you I was angry,” he says, keeping his voice even. “I will be for awhile, I think. But I understand what your reasons were, if not why you thought you had to do it. Going forward, we’ll have no more secrets from each other.”

Mary’s eyes glaze over again. “Oh, John,” she says, sniffing, and he lifts her hand and kisses the back of it. 

“Why don’t you take a little rest, and then we’ll go home,” he says. “You just take it easy. There’s no rush. It’s Sunday.” 

Mary manages a small smile. “I am still sleepy,” she admits. “I didn’t get that much sleep last night, either. I hate sleeping without you.”

 _That, or you were up too late planning some enormous devastation and doing God only knows what with that video file,_ John thinks but does not say. “Me too,” he says, so very gently. “It’s just going to happen sometimes when I’m on a case, though. Better that than wake you, I thought.” He squeezes her fingers and lets go. “Get some sleep. I’m going to get a coffee, but I’ll be back in a bit.” He gets himself out of the room and goes back to where Sherlock is working. 

Sherlock turns his phone around for John to see when he gets back. The screen shows a map with a blinking red dot: Mary’s signal. Sherlock zooms in to show how precise the location is. “You placed it perfectly,” he says, and John smiles in lieu of responding, and kisses him. The office is empty apart from the two of them. John puts his arms around Sherlock and kisses him again, longer this time, and Sherlock kisses back for a bit before pulling away, looking slightly bemused. “What brought that on?” he asks, still holding John by the arms. 

John shakes his head, smiling. “I don’t know. No – I do. It’s all the lying I did just now. I just – I wanted to confirm the truth, just to myself.” 

Sherlock’s face relaxes. “I see,” he says. He leans in again, the interest kindled in his eyes and playing about the corners of his mouth now. 

John stops him. “Where’s the kid?” 

“Coffee, maybe,” Sherlock says vaguely, his eyes on John’s lips. “I wasn’t really listening.” 

“What’s his name again?” John asks, just to provoke him. 

Sherlock leans in again, shaking his head, but John ducks away, waiting for him to get the name. “Sean,” he tries. 

“Nope.”

“Herbert.” Sherlock’s eyes are half-closed.

“Way off.” 

“Fitzgerald.”

“You’re not even trying,” John admonishes. 

“No, I’m not. Kiss me.” Sherlock tries again and this time John gives in, letting him, his mouth opening to Sherlock, arms locking automatically around his neck.

It’s a bit risky, doing this just down the corridor from Mary, but she’s almost certainly still under the influence of Sherlock’s compound and asleep again, anyway. The kid could come back, but John doesn’t particularly care about him. No one else knows they’re here, and they’ve got time to kill, anyway. Besides which, he’s fantastically, dizzyingly in love and it’s like a drug. Thinking of it this way reminds him soberly of his fear of Sherlock’s imagined overdose only eight days ago and the memory of the fear tightens his arms still further. Whatever happens, he vows to himself, they will get out of this situation. Deal with Mary and whatever crime she’s hatching, and then they’ll finally have this all of the time. The very idea is intoxicating. The kiss winds down after a bit and John opens his eyes, licks his lower lip and says, “Jared.” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s eyes are dreamy, his voice wonderfully deep. 

“That’s his name. The hacker,” John says. 

Sherlock sounds like he couldn’t possibly care less, his focus entirely on John. “Right. Got it. Jared.”

“Yeah?” 

They let go of each other and turn. The kid is standing in the doorway with two cups of coffee, looking awkward. Sherlock gives him a swift, insincere smile. “Right. Coffee. Yes. Thank you.”

Jared checks the writing on the cups. “Er, this one’s just got sugar and this one’s just got milk.” He holds them out and Sherlock takes them both and gives John the unsweetened one. 

“Thanks very much,” John says. 

The kid gives Sherlock some change. “Did you tell him we found the guy who received the file?” he asks. 

John looks at Sherlock. “What? Did you?” 

Sherlock looks a bit sheepish. “I may have forgotten to mention it. Yes. We did. My brother’s already looking for him.” 

“Is it someone we know?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Just a name. No address apart from the email, but Mycroft has his resources. We’ll have him soon enough.” He turns to the kid. “Thanks for your help. Get in touch with my brother about the payment.”

“Will do. Can I go?” Jared asks, and Sherlock nods and shoos him away. 

“This is perfect, actually,” John says, meaning the coffee. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Really. That’s a strong statement for what I thought was fairly mediocre hospital cafeteria coffee.” 

John laughs. “No, you tit. I told Mary I was going to get a coffee. I should get back to her room in case she wakes up, and then I’ll take her home and all that.” 

“Of course.” Their eyes meet and Sherlock says, very soberly, “This is almost over, John. We’ll figure out what she’s up to within a few days at the most. And then it will all come out. Just – hang on. And be careful. Hopefully this will have put her off-balance, shifted the power in our favour, but we can’t be certain of her remorse, or of having changed any plans she may have made. Watch yourself. And I’ll be watching, too.” 

John nods. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Do better than your best. I can’t do without you,” Sherlock says intensely. 

John puts the coffee down and takes a large step toward Sherlock, then puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips and kisses him again for a long moment. After, he looks into Sherlock’s eyes. “See you soon,” he says, not knowing when _soon_ is and wishing he did. Sherlock nods, then lets him go. John picks up the coffee and goes back to Mary’s room to wait for her to wake, his gut churning with fire and uneasiness and anticipation all in one. 

Now to wait. 

*** 

He goes through the motions of getting her inside and unpacking the bag Sherlock put together for her. If she is indeed running surveillance in the flat and sees the little sketch he and Sherlock put on after she passed out, it’s highly unlikely she’ll find it convincing, anyway, but the point was never to be convincing, but simply not being obvious about it. This is tricky territory now: he knows that Mary almost certainly would suspect him of having drugged her and destroyed the remainder of the latte, which he poured down the drain – just as she has destroyed any and all evidence of her ‘subtle’ attempts to kill him – yet she cannot come out and accuse him. Not and preserve this pretence of a loving reconciliation, which some part of her clearly still wants. But it hasn’t been enough to induce her to confess that she’s been trying to kill him, nor that she is fully aware of his affair, that she knows he is lying to her face. He is going to have to be very careful, indeed. 

“Are you still feeling dizzy at all?” he asks, helping her sit down. “Let me make you a cup of tea. You should keep your liquids up.” 

Mary considers the offer of tea, keeping her features very controlled. “I’m all right for now,” she says after a very short pause. “Perhaps later.” She smiles apologetically. 

“Right. All right. Are you hungry?” John asks. It’s her turn to fear accepting food or drink from him, he thinks, keeping his face blandly concerned and friendly. 

Mary wrinkles her nose. “Not really. I might have a little sleep in a bit.” 

“Of course, whatever you like,” John says. He points at her laptop and the novel. “I brought these along to the hospital in case they were going to keep you,” he says, and watches a definite spasm of uneasiness pass over her features, almost too quick to catch, but he was looking for it. “But they’re there if you want them. I’m feeling a bit peckish. I think I’ll make lunch. Let me know if you change your mind.” 

Mary says something vague and John leaves her, going into the kitchen. He makes a batch of potato leek soup, which he knows she likes, the smell of the leeks and onions roasting on the bottom of the pot and drifting out into the sitting room. He peels potatoes and chops them, adds water, chicken stock, and later, a cup of white wine. When the potatoes are soft, he blends the soup most of the way and adds a large splash of milk and turns down the heat to let it simmer. 

When he goes out to the sitting room to tell Mary it’s ready, she is curled up in her chair with her laptop, closing it as soon as John appears. He pretends not to notice. “Soup’s on,” he says cheerfully. 

Mary hesitates. “It smells good,” she admits. “Maybe I will have a little before my nap.” 

She stretches, coy and cat-like, and he remembers unwillingly when he used to find that cute. (What he wouldn’t give to be in the shabby comfort of Baker Street’s sitting room with Sherlock, watching him give one of his full-body stretches on the sofa, every bit as feline as Mary, yet a thousand times more appealing. His t-shirt would ride up, exposing a few inches of his pale, flat stomach, his pyjama pants low on his hip bones. John would go over and crawl onto him, Sherlock’s body warm and soft in his pyjamas, wind his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, and kiss him.) John clears his throat and head both. That’s no good: he’s got to pay attention if he wants to survive this farce long enough to make that life a reality. “Sounds good,” he says, his voice coming out only a little strained. “Let me get you a bowl.” 

*** 

The day goes on, stretching out in hours of boredom. Like watching paint dry, John thinks, exchanging empty fragments of meaningless conversation with Mary here and there. They jointly agree to order in for dinner, something they never really did much before. Sherlock possesses take-away menus to nearly every restaurant in London; Mary preferred them to stay in and cook, or else go out ‘properly’, as she would have said. Mary takes a bath in the evening, and afterward she comes over to John where he’s sitting in his chair and trying to make himself focus on a book. She’s only wearing her dressing gown, her hair wet but combed out. She perches herself on the arm of the chair and strokes his hair with her fingers, looking down at him questioningly. This always used to be her code for when she was in the mood, and John literally feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle in gut-deep rejection of the touch. He takes a deep breath and closes his book, keeping his finger in the page, and waits for her to come out and say it. 

“John,” Mary says, her voice soft and persuasive. “Please. It’s been so long.”

John purses his lips and looks down. “I’m… sorry, Mary,” he says quietly, trying to control the impulse to grab her hand and remove it from his person. “I’m just not ready.” She opens her mouth to protest but he cuts her off, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. “I want it to be real, when we get there. I want to feel it all the way again. And besides, your back is… having had elastic over the skin for months really wasn’t healthy. You should see a dermatologist. Sorry, but it’s a bit off-putting. And it’s just too soon. I mean – I thought I was going to be a father in about three weeks’ time. I’m – still processing all of that.” 

He gets the words out as though with difficulty and thinks they sound pretty convincing. And firm. It’s a solid no, and he’s got bloody good reasons even if he still felt anything for her at all, which he doesn’t. Mary’s face falls and she turns her head a little to hide it. “Okay,” she says. “I get it. You said it was all right, though. That you understood why I did it.” 

“Yes, but it doesn’t change the fact that I have to deal with my side of this in my own way,” John tells her, looking straight ahead at the carpet in front of him. “It’s a big thing to come to terms with.” He makes himself put a hand on her knee. “We’ll try again, if you want. Or we’ll talk about it, at least. But tonight is just too soon. Some things just take time to heal. You know that; you’re a nurse.” 

Mary stops touching him and slips off the arm of the chair again, getting her knee out from under his touch. “Will you at least come to bed? You’re not going to sleep out here, are you? I’m not sure I could take that.” 

There’s an edge in her voice that makes John wonder if there’s a subtly-implied threat in there. _Sleep on the sofa and you may not make it to see the light of dawn._ “Of course I’ll come to bed,” he says, and gives her as much of a smile as he can muster. “Go on. I’ll be right there.”

Mary smiles back and goes, and for a moment John wonders which option is more dangerous. Best to mollify her in any way he can stomach, he thinks sourly. When she’s in the bedroom, he glances around the room and sees the camera, not terribly well-hidden in the plant sitting on the end table. He sees another in the dining room and finds a gap between them to remove the flip phone from his underwear. He stows it quietly in the toe of his left shoe and goes into the bedroom to change. 

Mary curls up against his left side, fingers closed over his wrist the way she likes to do, and they lie that way in the dark for over an hour, both aware that the other is still awake and equally aware of the other’s knowledge. John forces himself to win the contest, and when it’s been nearly two hours, he finally hears Mary’s breathing beginning to slow. He waits until her fingers have loosened and she’s snoring lightly before letting himself drop off at last. 

*** 

Through some instinct or perhaps some remnant of his military training, John wakes before Mary. He keeps himself quiet beside her until she stirs, twenty minutes later. He leans over and kisses her on the forehead, then goes to take a quick shower. Today could be the day. He devoutly hopes it is. This farce is such a strain to keep up. In the kitchen, they’re carefully sunny toward one another, making breakfast jointly, each watching the other’s hands as subtly as they can, and both survive breakfast without incident. John waits until Mary goes to the loo afterward to retrieve the flip phone, reinstating it with a sense of relief. Mary comes back and picks up a pencil to start on the _Times_ crossword. 

John’s regular phone buzzes with a text. He picks it up to read it. It’s Sherlock. _Seen the Times today?_ He glances over. Mary has the entire paper. There is no way to avoid letting her know that he’s seen it, once he has. He’ll just have to be very cool about the whole thing. “Can I have the front section?” he asks casually. 

“Sure,” Mary says. She passes it to him. “Who’s that?” 

“Just Sherlock. Nothing important.” John puts the phone down and begins idly scanning the front page. It’s right there in front of him. _LONDON SUMMIT ON TERROR ATTRACTS EXPERTS, DIPLOMATS WORLDWIDE_. He quickly reads the article. He remembers having seen the coverage about this before. He didn’t realise it was starting today. There are several pictures of people expected to attend, including high level politicians and apparent experts on terrorism from around the globe. Also pictured is the UK’s diplomat to the Persian Gulf, Ambassador Graham Whitfield. John’s heart begins to beat faster. This is definitely it. This is Mary’s target. He makes himself turn the page as though he saw nothing of interest, avoiding meeting Mary’s eyes at all costs, scanning the second page. Two or three minutes pass in tense silence. Somehow he feels certain that Mary has figured out that he’s seen it and knows, or suspects at the very least. 

“Can you think of a three-letter word for ‘jog’ that isn’t ‘jog’?” Mary asks, frowning at the crossword. 

It comes to John rather instantly. “Run,” he supplies. It suddenly occurs to him that what Mary just said has nothing whatsoever to do with her crossword. He glances at the clock on the wall and tries to keep his voice completely casual. “Speaking of which, I’d better get to the clinic. See you later.”

Mary looks up at him and gives him a tricky smile, an interesting light in her eyes. “Not if I see you first,” she says softly, and her eyes look rather snakelike at that particular angle. Like that night at Baker Street, when he confronted her about having shot Sherlock. 

John suddenly finds that he can’t bear to be in the same room with her for another second. The farce is dead and twitching on the table between them on the front page of the _Times_. “Right,” he says. He gets himself to his coat and shoes and puts them on as slowly as he can make himself, knowing as he does it that he is never coming back here. He’ll buy a new laptop, new clothes. It doesn’t matter. He has to get out, now. He gets himself out the front door and walks briskly to the corner, willing himself not to run, and hails the first taxi he sees. Only once he’s inside does he snap, “Drive, as quick as you can! 221B Baker Street!” 

“Yes, sir,” the driver says, and swerves rapidly into the stream of traffic. 

John pulls out his phone and calls Sherlock. Sherlock answers, saying his name tensely. “I saw it,” John says in response. “I’m on my way!”

“Good. Stay on the phone with me until you arrive,” Sherlock says, not even trying to hide his anxiety. 

“I’m out,” John assures him. “Sherlock – when does it start, the summit?” 

“Tonight,” Sherlock tells him. “Mycroft knows. He’s trying to find out when the delegates are arriving, and how. You’re all right, though? You didn’t eat or drink anything she prepared?” 

“We made breakfast together, and it was a bit tricky,” John says dryly. “We were both watching each other and both aware of it, I think. It was a pretty flimsy cover, honestly, but I think it worked for about as long as it could have.” 

“She knows you saw the _Times_?” Sherlock asks. 

“Yes.” John tells him grimly. “She had it. I couldn’t really hide it.” He moves his mouth away from the speaker to address the driver. “Turn here, please, it’s quicker.” 

“Where are you now?” Sherlock wants to know. 

“Almost there,” John assures him. “I’m just passing University College now.” The taxi finally arrives. He pays and gets himself inside as quickly as possible. Sherlock is waiting just inside the doors and John kicks the door shut and steps into his waiting arms. The hug is more relief than anything else. 

“Come upstairs,” Sherlock says, still tense, and John follows him up. 

“What do we know?” he asks. 

“Not enough,” Sherlock says shortly, pulling him by the hand over to the desk and his laptop. He sits and hauls John down onto his lap, his arms around him as though he can physically make himself a bulletproof vest for him. The screen is showing the camera feed on the flat. There is no visible activity, but then, who knows what Mary is up to inside? 

John’s arms are already around Sherlock but he turns his head to bury his face in Sherlock’s curls. “It’s okay,” he says, holding him tightly. “I made it out of there. I’m okay.” 

“I barely slept last night,” Sherlock says, his entire frame still rigid with stress. “I was in half a mind to extract you even before you left the hospital.”

John puts two fingers under Sherlock’s chin and turns his face upward. “I’m okay,” he repeats, as firmly as he can. “I’m here.” He cuts off the desperate noise Sherlock makes with his mouth, kissing him deeply, fully, his tongue stroking against Sherlock’s, their breath mingling. It goes on for several minutes, and he feels some of the tension bleed out of Sherlock’s frame as it goes. The kiss winds up after a bit and he presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheeks and forehead and hair, holding him and reassuring him as viscerally as possible, with his arms and body and mouth. “We can focus on the summit now, yeah?” he says gently, inwardly kicking himself a little for not having realised how much Sherlock had been keeping the strain of having him in such a dangerous spot to himself. And beyond that, he always says he can think better with John around, so he’s had to do without him, too, and then there’s the added possibility that he was worrying that John might have felt any temptation at all to stay with Mary, stay in that life. Of course: John sees it with complete clarity now. Of course Sherlock is in a bit of a state now. He bends and puts his mouth on Sherlock’s again, this kiss turning to sweetness, less fraught than the first ones. 

Sherlock opens his eyes after and exhales deeply, their eyes locked together, just being together, and John can feel their connection in his very flesh and blood, as Sherlock described during that awful conversation just over a week ago, about the imaginary overdose. But it’s even more than that. It’s his flesh and blood and bone and heart, John thinks, the latter thumping almost audibly in his chest. From here on in, there will be no more pretence. It’s the two of them against everyone else, the way it was always meant to be. The mock reality of John + Mary no longer exists. “Okay,” Sherlock says, the word simple. but it’s all that needs to be said. John feels instinctively that they’re thinking the exact same thing. From now on, this is how it is: they are one entity, in this together for good. Their safety and status are both secured, and the knowledge of this means that they can get to their work now. Sherlock touches his mouth to John’s one more time, briefly, as though in punctuation to the word, then breaks away. “The summit,” he says, and turns back to his laptop, typing with his arms around John. He pauses for the briefest of moments, his fingers stilling. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

John shakes his head. “No need,” he says simply. “I quite understand.”

Sherlock smiles, as though to himself. “The first talks start tonight. Ambassador Whitfield is actually the keynote speaker, based on a paper he had published recently on terror cells in Northern Africa and rural Iran, discussing the types of training used, recruitment techniques, and targeted victims. He started out as our ambassador to Egypt and branched out into the Middle East and then further east to the Persian Gulf. Anyway, his first talk is tonight, after the big welcome and whatnot.” 

“Who are the other delegates? How many people are coming?” John asks. 

Sherlock’s fingers type rapidly. “Eighty-nine, all of whom are important politicians, diplomats, or scholars who specialise in terrorism and the so-called ‘war on terror’.”

John’s gut tightens. “Great. And the talks are being held in the Houses of Parliament?” 

“Yes. Mycroft’s people have already swept it for bomb threats and come up empty. Likewise for the bridge.” Sherlock looks up at him and their eyes meet. Again John feels certain that they’re thinking the same thing. 

“The most obvious vulnerable point is transporting them, then,” he says grimly. “Do we know how they’re arriving?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Mycroft says it’s all been kept very hush-hush for security. He’s working on it now.” 

“And what about the video guy?” John wants to know. “The one Mary sent the file to? Has he been found?” 

“No,” Sherlock says, “but the hacker kid has worked something out that will triangulate the signal of the file within thirty seconds once it starts to broadcast.” 

“I wonder how long the video is.” John shifts his weight. 

“No idea.” 

The door downstairs opens. They both hear it, John stiffening. He finds himself on his feet before he’s consciously aware of having moved. Sherlock moves around him, his Browning in hand, steadied with both hands, and John, unarmed, doesn’t try to stop him for once. The step on the stairs is not particularly light, nor is it trying for secrecy, he realises a split second later, just as Sherlock turns around, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he says, lowering the gun. He raises his voice. “If you’re trying to get yourself shot, Mycroft, that’s a good way to go about doing it!” 

Mycroft moves into the doorframe, his eyebrows near his hairline. “That would have been extremely ironic,” he says, his voice as oily as his grimaced smile. “Given why I came.” 

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a broadcaster to find?” Sherlock is irritable, and John feels it too and understands that it’s relief. He’d thought it might be Mary. They both did, he thinks. Can she have possibly realised that he’s not at the clinic by now? He could still be on the bus at this time. 

Mycroft is rolling his eyes right back at Sherlock. “Spare me the dramatics. I know how to do my work. Besides which, I am not here for you.” He shifts his gaze to John. “Doctor Watson.” 

John is a little surprised. “Yeah?”

Mycroft reaches into his coat pocket and draws out his old Sig, advances and lays it on the corner of the desk. “I thought, given the circumstances, that you should have this back. Best to have you both armed today, I think.” He steps back, settling both hands on the curved wooden handle of his umbrella. “It’s been official evidence for the past two weeks. I…liberated it. Permanently, I should think. Use it well.” 

He gives something of a sanctimonious nod and John reaches for it. Its cold, heavy weight feels reassuring in his hands. He cracks open the magazine to have a look inside. “You reloaded it,” he says, still mildly surprised. “Thanks.” 

“Yes, more effective that way, I find,” Mycroft drawls, already halfway to the top of the stairs. “I’ll be in touch.” 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock barks after him. 

“Hmmm?”

“When are the delegates arriving?” Sherlock demands. “Surely you must know that by now!” 

Mycroft stops and comes back. “The arrangements have been made,” he agrees. “I am in the process of trying to get them changed or adjusted to allow us greater control. The delegates are arriving in the same window of time, on separate flights, between eleven in the morning and two in the afternoon. From there, they are being delivered to the Royal Horseguards Hotel. Individually, as they arrive.”

Sherlock frowns, not understanding. “But then – that’s not it, then. That’s not when it’s going to happen. Which airport are they arriving at?” 

“Both Heathrow and Gatwick,” Mycroft tells him. “And yes. I know. My people are looking at the conference, at something we may have overlooked. You’re quite certain that this is it?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He paces back and forth, one hand on his forehead, the other on his hip. “I don’t understand. The Tower Bridge is considerably out of the way from both airports and the hotel or the Houses of Parliament. Why would she have chosen that bridge? Why not the Westminster Bridge, or Lambeth or Waterloo, if coming from Gatwick? From Heathrow they wouldn’t even _need_ to cross the river. And how could she control what time they each arrived at, unless she’s not targeting them?” He stops and looks at John, ignoring Mycroft. “What if that’s it? What if she just wants to demonstrate whatever power she thinks she has while all the world’s terrorism experts are in the city?” 

John meets his gaze. “Wouldn’t that just incite them to work even harder to stop people like her, though?” he asks dubiously. 

“Ah, but don’t forget, John, the frailty of genius and all that,” Sherlock points out. “It craves an audience.”

John shakes his head. “Is she a genius, though?” he asks. “She’s clever – I’ll certainly give her that. But you once told me that it’s just as dangerous to overestimate someone’s intelligence as to underestimate it. And you’ve consistently been disappointed by all the worst criminals we’ve encountered so far, in that very respect.”

Sherlock stares at him. “You’re right,” he says. He almost looks as though he might swoop over and kiss him senseless, Mycroft’s presence notwithstanding. “She _isn’t_ a genius. She’s not even as clever as Mycroft!”

“Thanks for that,” Mycroft says dryly. 

Neither of them acknowledges him. “No, she isn’t,” John agrees. “Remember her cameras? She’s barely even subtle, once you know what to look for, yet she thinks she’s being so devious. She’s no less dangerous for it, but it can only take us by surprise the first time, you know?” 

Sherlock’s eyes are still fixed on him. “John, you’re brilliant,” he breathes. “So: Mary will definitely make some sort of demonstration, but it won’t be pointless. She may still be targeting the delegates, particularly Whitfield. Mycroft, have you checked on Whitfield’s security personnel?” he asks, not breaking eye contact with John. “You’ll need to vet them all. And have you got surveillance on Mary’s flat?” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, not dignifying either part with an answer. “That would be my cue,” he says, as though to himself. He walks out without saying goodbye. 

Sherlock crosses the room to John but doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he puts his hands on John’s shoulders and says, his voice intense, “Then there has to be another weakness. What do you think? Opening talk? Closing talk? Some crucial point in between? A dinner? Is the Queen visiting? Wills and Kate?” He pronounces the moniker with only slight distaste. “Anything like that?” 

“I don’t have their itinerary,” John reminds him, though the corner of his mouth smiles despite himself. He loves seeing Sherlock like this, intensely focused and asking dozens of questions without waiting for the answers first. Though he does like to say that half the process of deduction is finding the correct question. “All right, let’s figure this out. Can we sit?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock takes him by the wrist and pulls him over to the sofa. “Let’s sit and think.” 

They sit, limbs overlapping, Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders, and John muses aloud, sorting through it. “Are any of the delegates especially more important than the others? Any presidents or kings or – I don’t know, sheikhs or sultans or what have you?” 

“There’s a Saudi prince, but there are lots of those,” Sherlock says dismissively. His brow is creased, fingers on his lips as he thinks furiously. 

His arm is tight, as though pressing John into himself is helping him to process. John searches his mind for another question to feed Sherlock. It’s a bit like tending a fire, he’s thought in the past. If that’s what conducting light means, then he’s quite happy to do it, especially now. Once they get down to action, it’ll be a more physical role, but if Sherlock is willing to have him there and part of his reasoning process, then he’s very glad to stay, rather than being shut out while Sherlock searches his own mind, alone. “All right, then,” he says now. “What about their meals? Where are they eating? Surely they’re not going to give a Saudi prince box lunches all week or something.”

Sherlock makes a sound of frustration against fingers pressing into his lower lip. “I don’t know yet. There are too many gaps in our knowledge, John.” 

John looks at him and thinks that he looks tired. “You didn’t sleep at all last night?” he asks. In the daylight streaming in, it seems to him that the fine lines around Sherlock’s eyes are more visible than usual. Of course Sherlock doesn’t get bags under his eyes even when he’s gone without sleep. But he does look pale and tired, John thinks. He turns a little and puts an arm across Sherlock’s chest. “It’s only nine,” he says, glancing at the clock above the desk. “You have time to sleep, if you want. Just a nap. It will help you stay clearer later on.” 

Sherlock shakes his head a little, the lines deepening. “I know, but I can’t. I need to think.” 

“Sherlock – ” John starts, but Sherlock interrupts. 

“Besides, if we didn’t have a case, your proximity would put something else considerably ahead of sleep on my list of priorities,” he says, a trifle aloofly. 

John feels his brows lift and looks down into Sherlock’s lap. There is indeed a slight bulge there, and his mouth fills with saliva, looking at it. “Oh my,” he says. “What about this, then? I take care of that, and you oblige me and just sleep for half an hour or so. If any new information comes in, we’ll know right away and we’ll go. I promise.” 

Sherlock pauses. “It’s frustrating not to know more,” he says, hedging. “Do you think we should go out to the Tower Bridge and have a look?” 

John puts his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and massages his scalp lightly. “You said that Mycroft’s team already checked.”

“They did,” Sherlock admits. “We should be keeping an eye on Mary.” 

“She hasn’t left the flat yet.” John rubs Sherlock’s chest, feeling his nipple peak through his shirt, his interest rising tangibly. “And Mycroft’s people are watching. We can take the laptop into the bedroom. I’ll watch while you sleep. Besides, we have a tracker planted on her.”

“John…” Sherlock is weakening both visibly and audibly. 

John leans in and catches hold of Sherlock’s ear lobe with his teeth. “I want to go down on you.” 

He lets his hand trail south, his knuckles brushing over Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock exhales heavily, through his mouth. “I – we – should focus,” he tries, but his pupils are already drowning out the blue of his irises. 

“We are focused. We’re just passing the time. There’s nothing else we can do just now, anyway.” John sucks at his ear lobe again and Sherlock shudders, his free hand coming out to grab at John’s wrist. 

He presses it into his skin and then, jointly, they both move it down. “Thirty minutes,” Sherlock says, his voice already breathy. “No more.” 

“Deal.” John’s eyes close as their mouths come together, Sherlock’s hungry and almost verging on desperate. “Bedroom?” John asks again, against his lips. “We can take the laptop and keep an eye on the feed.”

“No – I want to stay here – ” Sherlock is rapidly losing control of his ability to speak, and John understands the desperation, the need to do this now, of all times. It’s half confirmation, before everything blows up, and half a need to expel nervous energy while they’re stuck without information to get them any further. 

“Fine!” John gets him unzipped and pushes him back against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock lets himself be manoeuvred, breathing audibly, his legs falling open as John works his trousers and underwear jointly down to his ankles and then off altogether. He settles himself on his front between Sherlock’s knees and takes in the length of him. He’s only had a chance to do this once in full length and detail so far and has been wanting to try it again ever since. He wants to do a proper job of it this time, make him feel really good. He starts with his tongue, laving a broad stripe up the underside of Sherlock’s erection, which hardens tangibly as he does so. He does it again, this time curling his tongue around the flushed head of Sherlock’s cock, the foreskin already pulling back. John explores this for a moment, pushing at it with his tongue and wrapping his hand around the swelling shaft, and Sherlock groans. He’s got one elbow on the back of the sofa cushions and now his other hand settles into John’s hair lightly, not pushing, his fingers rubbing at John’s scalp. John gives him another full-length swipe of his tongue, then stops teasing and dips his mouth over the head, kissing it and massaging its underside with his tongue. 

Sherlock releases another pent-up breath, vocally, his head tipping back, mouth open. “Oh _God_ ,” he pants, and John hums his amusement directly into his flesh, then sets about the job properly, sucking and moving his head up and down. It’s a lot of multitasking, but he’s good at that. Once his mouth and left hand are going in a steady rhythm, he lets his right wander, stroking Sherlock’s bare thigh and reaching up to slip the buttons of his shirt open. Sherlock’s fingers tangle with his as he hastens to help, and John twines their fingers together, his thumb rubbing over Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hips shunt upward, his legs trembling on either side of John’s head. “It feels – you’re phenomenal, John – you’re – ahh – ”

John goes harder, letting go of the base of him to cup his balls, tugging on them gently, and feels a gush of salty release escape from the tip of Sherlock’s cock. He hums again, liking this, then, listening to Sherlock panting raggedly, lets go of his hand and puts both of his own on Sherlock’s arse, holding him up as he wills his throat to relax, taking him all the way inside. Both of Sherlock’s hands clamp down on his head and he shouts out, pumping upward rapidly three or four times as though completely outside his own control, and when he comes, it’s directly down John’s throat. John’s holding him in place, his nose mashed into the skin of Sherlock’s lower abdomen and he feels his throat swallowing instinctively, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s arse hard enough to leave marks. Sherlock’s entire body spasms and he comes again, shaking, then finally sags in John’s hands, letting himself fall back to the sofa cushions. He’s panting and trying to say something as John pulls off him, inhaling hard, stars swimming in his vision. Sherlock’s cock is still leaking a bit, so he licks gently at the head, not wanting to over-stimulate him, his tongue soft. 

Sherlock finally regains the power of coherent speech. “That was – incredible,” he manages, his voice shredded with breath. “Thank you.”

John wants to laugh but doesn’t, smiling up at him instead. “You’re welcome,” he says. “But don’t thank me. I wanted to.” 

Sherlock’s face almost hurts him. “Come here,” he says, and John shifts upward and puts his mouth on Sherlock’s. He’s hard but has almost forgotten about it. Sherlock puts a hand on his clothed arse as they kiss, reminding him, his other hand working the button of John’s jeans open, the zipper thumbed down with remarkable (but hardly surprising) deftness. “Now you,” he says, and it’s that simple. His long-fingered hand slips into John’s underwear and curls itself around his aching cock, half jerking him and half letting John push into the circle of his fingers, their tongues echoing the push-and-pull at the same time, and it’s only a few moments before it spikes and John finds himself humping Sherlock’s fist like a teenager. He comes all over Sherlock’s belly and open dress shirt with a rush of wet breath, the hand on his arse massaging in circles and squeezing, and it feels far too good for the simple thing it actually was. It doesn’t matter. It felt good and he loves it. 

They get Sherlock out of his ruined shirt and John tugs him backward onto himself, so that Sherlock is lying back within the cradle of his arms and legs, John bending over his shoulder to kiss his cheek and temple, his hands stroking Sherlock’s chest and stomach. “Sleep a bit now,” he says. “I promise I’ll wake you if anything happens.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock is warm and heavy, like a cat napping in the sun, and John thinks momentarily of the mental comparison he made between Sherlock and Mary just last night. “Thirty – ”

“Thirty minutes. No more,” John promises. He kisses Sherlock’s temple again, breathing in the scent of his hair and skin and loves him fiercely. He makes himself stop so that Sherlock can sleep but keeps his face close, holding Sherlock with every part of himself. Sherlock has been so bloody amazing at looking after him, particularly after the ice patch the other day. It’s time he had someone lavish a bit of the same care on him, John thinks. He was right about Sherlock needing some sleep: he’s out within two minutes, sleepy and sated after the blow job, and John holds his unconscious form, wonderfully soft and heavy and relaxed in his arms, and silently vows to keep him from any and every form of harm in the world. 

As Sherlock’s breathing slows and deepens, John thinks back to the morning and breakfast with Mary. Her crossword. _What’s a three-letter word for jog?_ she’d asked, her voice completely neutral, the cover firmly tamped down into place. _Run_ , he’d responded, then realised instantly that she was giving him exactly one chance to leave. Clearly she has a big day ahead and having him underfoot would have cramped her style, though he was purportedly going to work. Knowing that he’d seen the article was too much, though: it broke the cover too thoroughly for both of them. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d brought her back from the hospital and their thin farce of a marriage had fallen apart the instant he’d asked to see the _Times_. Why did she offer him an out? Or was it just another threat, this time not particularly well-disguised at all? _See you later_ , he’d said, trying to sound casual, and he remembers how her eyes had gleamed. _Not if I see you first_ , she’d said, a clear undertone of threat there. It meant _Stay out of my way if you know what’s good for you_ , John thinks now. It meant that the next time they meet, it will be as they truly are: adversaries. He will be clearly and openly with Sherlock and only Sherlock, and Mary will be their openly-declared enemy. It’s better this way, John tells himself, glancing at the unchanging feed on her flat. It’s honest. It is what it is. And if she wants to kill him, he’d frankly like to see her try that with Sherlock around. It occurs to him that when they catch Mary, and catch her they will, she could well die if she refuses to cooperate. He lets this thought cycle through his head for a moment or two, then realises that he is fine with this. It would be easier on her than a lifetime in prison. It would certainly be no less than she deserves. He would personally prefer the prison option, if only for that precise reason: Mary would hate it. He suspects that she will never come to terms with the many crimes she has committed, the many murders, sanctioned and unsanctioned, never feel remorse for any of it. She has tried to kill him at least three times already, and put a lead bullet into Sherlock’s heart, knowing what his loss would mean to John, and not caring one bit. She deserves to die. Even so, he’s not sure he wants to be the one to pull the trigger. As he thinks this, he imagines her levelling a gun at Sherlock’s chest or face again and his gut clenches and he revises his opinion. Absolutely. He could absolutely be the one to kill her if she laid so much as a finger on Sherlock again. That is simply not going to be allowed to happen. Not on his watch, he thinks, as the love of his life dozes in his arms. _Not while I’m still drawing breath._

*** 

When the thirty minutes are over, he wakes Sherlock and tells him, as he’s yawning and blinking, that he’s going to put on the kettle while Sherlock gets himself a clean shirt. Sherlock yawns again and agrees, already getting to his feet and padding down the corridor to the bedroom. 

John makes tea and checks the time. It’s now eleven. The first delegates should have started to arrive. What else can they possibly do? Mycroft has not called. He wonders if Mary hired a bomb maker or whether she does that herself. Amazing, he thinks. He knows so very, very little about her – and technically she’s his wife, even if they’ve lived together under the same roof as a married couple for less than six weeks in total. 

Sherlock comes back before the kettle boils. “Mycroft just texted,” he says, stopping in front of John and putting his lips to his forehead. “The first three delegates have landed and the first has been delivered to the hotel without incident. All of the drivers have been double-checked.”

“Okay,” John says, thinking. The kettle switches off so he goes to pour water over the tea. “What are we missing, then? What haven’t we thought of? Mycroft has a method of finding the broadcaster once the broadcast starts. Ambassador Whitfield’s own people have been re-checked. The drivers have been checked. The Houses of Parliament have been checked. And the Tower Bridge has been swept, too. What haven’t we thought of?” 

Sherlock frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t know.” He sits down at the table and goes silent, thinking. 

John gets out the milk, two cups, and a spoon, and brings it to the table and sits down, the tea steeping between them. “Neither do I.” 

Sherlock pours the tea. “The nap was a good idea,” he admits. “Not to mention what came before it.” A hint of smirk plays about the corners of his mouth and John smiles, suppressing the urge to kiss them into a full-blown smile. 

“That’s what you keep me around for,” he says. He tips a bit of milk into his tea and stirs it. “You know, I do think it’s a bit strange that Mary hasn’t been seen to leave the flat yet.” 

Sherlock looks up suddenly, his hand stilling on the sugar spoon, his face intense. “There’s been nothing whatsoever on the camera feed?” 

John shakes his head. “Nothing that I’ve seen, though obviously I wasn’t watching it the entire time. Mycroft’s people were watching the building, though.”

Sherlock takes out his phone and holds down a single number, then waits. “Mycroft,” he says without preamble. “Send an agent into the flat. I think Mary may have found another means of egress.” He listens momentarily, then says, “We’ll wait.” His eyes meet John’s in the silence that follows. It stretches out over three minutes, then John hears the voice on the other end speak again. Sherlock’s face clouds over. “Oh, for God’s sake!” he snaps. “Find her, damn it!” 

He disconnects with force. He doesn’t have to say it. “Shit,” John says, with feeling. “How the hell did she get out without being seen?” 

Sherlock knows already. “Window,” he says shortly. “Bathroom, evidently. It was open, but there are no fresh footprints in the snow in the back, suggesting that she moved over the rooftops.” He pulls out his phone. “Good thing you got the tracker into her arm.”

The app takes a moment to load, both of them leaning over it. Sherlock sips his tea, impatient, and winces at the heat. Finally the button pops up. They’re about to exclaim at it when it disappears and pops up somewhere else, then in a third location, shaking and skittering about, then settling, then drifting half a block to the north. “She’s damaged it,” John says softly, pointing out the obvious. “She must have figured out it was there.”

“But was unable to remove it entirely,” Sherlock agrees. “Pity. That could have proven quite helpful. Well, we’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.” 

John looks at him. “What do you have in mind?” he asks. “It doesn’t really make sense for us to plunge out into the city without having the first idea what we’re doing, does it?” 

“No, but it also doesn’t make sense for us to stay here, where Mary could easily target us if she chooses to do so,” Sherlock points out. “Get your coat. We’ll send Mrs Hudson out for the remainder of the day. It’s Monday; she has a tango class with Mr Chatterjee tonight, anyway.” 

John takes a swallow of his tea and leaves the rest behind, going to put on his coat and shoes and racking his brain all the while for some hint, any hint as to how Mary could have got hold of an itinerary, found out when the delegates would be moving around. Maybe she’s not going to target them in motion. But when else? he wonders, zipping his coat. He decides to ask this aloud. “When else could Mary possibly target the delegates?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps we’re overestimating her, John. Perhaps she isn’t planning mass-scale devastation at all. Perhaps her grand plan is to hijack someone’s power point presentation with a badly-made video of a dead man’s face. Perhaps that’s her planned form of intimidation.” 

“Tell me you’re joking,” John says, snorting, following him down the stairs. 

“I’m joking,” Sherlock assures him dryly, knocking at 221A. “All of those searches on the Tower Bridge’s structural integrity would certainly say otherwise.” He opens the door. “Mrs Hudson!” He deals with their rather flustered landlady and packs her off into a cab, then turns to John on the pavement. “The hotel, I think.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Really? All right. Whatever you think.” 

“You said it yourself,” Sherlock reminds him, hailing a taxi. “It can’t be at the Houses of Parliament, they’re not coming from the airport at the same time, and we don’t know when or how they’re all crossing the bridge at the same time. They’re staying walking distance of the summit so there won’t be any times when they’re all transported at the same time. So what if it’s the hotel itself?”

“Brilliant,” John says, meaning it, and Sherlock opens the cab door for him and ushers him inside. 

They arrive at the Royal Horseguards Hotel and have a look around. Sherlock nods at someone dressed as a chef down near the kitchens. “MI5,” he says, _sotto voce_. 

“One of Mycroft’s?” John glances at Sherlock, whose nod confirms it. “I guess they won’t be poisoned, then. I imagine they’re just eating breakfast here and on their own for lunch and supper. Although possibly lunch would be catered at the event.”

“I’m sure Mycroft has thought of that,” Sherlock says dryly. “Poison is always one of his first thoughts. He always chastises me for not thinking of it sooner.” 

“Trust Mycroft to think of poison first,” John says. Somehow this is funny to both of them. 

“Let’s have a look in the kitchens anyway,” Sherlock proposes, so John agrees and they jog down a corridor promising to lead that way. A thorough inspection of the cooking supplies and refrigerators turns up nothing, so next they go down to the basement to search the garages and storage areas for a bomb. 

“You know, this is a beautiful hotel,” John says as they exit an air duct large enough to crawl through side-by-side. “This is not the way I was hoping to discover it.” 

Sherlock snickers, and John has a fleeting moment of realising that this is fun, despite the stakes at hand. Maybe other people would think it’s odd that this is what they do together, but it’s both work and hobby, and it works for them. “We’ll come here properly sometime, if you want,” he offers. 

John looks at him and smiles, brushing dust off his shoulders. “Yeah? Maybe we should,” he says. “Where to next?” 

Sherlock thinks for a moment, the crease at the bridge of his nose appearing. “Roof?” 

“Deal.” John leads the way, trotting back up a flight of stairs to go back to the bank of lifts, which they’re currently below. A lock-picking and examination of the rooftop later, they go back down to the foyer, feeling as though they’ve hit a dead end. 

“It’s past two now,” Sherlock is saying as they exit the lifts. “The last of the delegates should have arrived by now. Perhaps we should just find one and ask to see the itinerary, unless they won’t receive it until they register this evening or something.”

“We could always ask,” John agrees, “though we’d have to identify a delegate first. I imagine they’d keep it pretty casual, escorting them in and all that.” He lets his eyes sweep around the foyer, looking for any pairs of people, one with luggage and one without. There actually is one such pair at the front desk, but gazing at them, John’s eyes suddenly fall on something else, just past them – or rather, someone else, someone almost so ordinary that, had he not had a reason to remember the man, he might not have. In other words, the perfect mole. “Sherlock,” he says, his voice low. He nods at the front desk. 

Sherlock’s eyes fall on David Putnam. “Aha,” he says, under his breath in a tone of satisfaction. He advances across the lobby, approaching from an angle, and David doesn’t see them until they’re nearly upon him. 

His eyes open comically. He could have just played it cool, John thinks, but instead, he panics. “Not you,” he says in alarm as Sherlock looms into his field of vision. “Not you!” He bolts, vaulting over the far side of the front desk and making a break from it, disappearing down one of the many lushly-carpeted corridors branching off from the grand front entrance. 

A burst of adrenaline breaks over John as their fruitless search suddenly takes on new life. He and Sherlock don’t even need to look at each other before breaking into a run instantly. They fly past guests waiting for the lifts and weave around hotel staff, already scattered by David’s flight. They’re much faster than he is and will be on him in a moment or two. He bursts through an emergency exit at the end of the corridor, setting off an alarm and Sherlock is on him two seconds later, slamming him up against the side of the building out on the pavement. 

“You,” Sherlock snarls. “I should have known. What are you up to?” 

He’s pinning David by the shoulders and David is sweating and stammering already. “N-nothing!” he gasps. “I just – I work here, that’s all!” 

John withdraws his Sig and settles the butt of it against David’s temple. “Try again,” he says softly. “This is not a man you should try lying to, David.” 

A glimmer of a smile plays about Sherlock’s mouth but he doesn’t say anything, waiting. David closes his eyes as though waiting for death to take him at any moment. John has no intention of actually killing him, but making him nervous is rather fun. “I don’t – I’m just the desk clerk, I have nothing to do with – ”

“David,” Sherlock says, rather patiently for him. “The truth, please. Now.” 

“Where is the bomb?” John asks, cutting straight to the chase. 

David’s eyes fly open. “Bomb?” he repeats, his eyes wide. “There’s no bomb in the hotel, I swear! Or – I mean – is there?” He cringes. “I don’t know anything about it! I mean that!” 

John sighs. “David, cut the crap, now. Obviously you know something or else you wouldn’t have run. Tell us what’s going on and you’ll get out of this relatively unscathed. But hurry!”

David looks desperate. “She – she made me agree to do it, all right? I didn’t want – ”

“David,” Sherlock interrupts him again, the patience gone now, “tell us what you did. You have five seconds and then we’ll have no choice but to arrest you as a terrorist. What have you done?” 

David begins to cry.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” John says in disgust. “Just spit it out!” He lowers the gun. “Just tell us already!” 

“The – buses,” David chokes out. “She made me wire in a video system. And other stuff, like something with the door locks. I don’t know what she’s planning, though, I swear!” 

His hands are up and John feels inclined to believe him. Sherlock is frowning at David. “What buses?” he asks. 

David looks at both of them, his brows condensing a little. “The coaches,” he says. “For the tour.”

“Tour?” Sherlock repeats. “What tour?” 

David stares at him blankly. “The – tour,” he repeats stupidly. “The city tour.” 

John figures it out first. “The delegates are being taken on a tour of the city?” David nods, speechless. “When does it leave?” he demands. 

David cranes his head to look at his wrist. “It left ten minutes ago,” he says, wincing. “There are three buses. All eighty-nine delegates are on board. They’re being taken straight from the tour to their opening dinner.”

“Shit!” John forgets about David, looking at Sherlock. “What do we do?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “The Tower Bridge,” he says, also ignoring David. “Of course. That would be the only reason they would go there. Come on. We’ve got to get there.” 

“Wait!” David says, as they start to leave. They stop and look back at him, John feeling especially impatient. “What about me?” 

John glances at Sherlock. “Go back to the front desk,” Sherlock tells him. “And when my brother’s people come, go along quietly. If you run now, it will be much worse.” 

David nods quickly. “Got it,” he says. 

Sherlock hails a taxi, simultaneously pulling out his phone. “Mycroft,” he says into it, his voice intense. “The Tower Bridge. I don’t know how or when it’s going to happen, but it’s definitely happening there. You have people on site?” 

“Yes,” Mycroft’s voice says through the phone speaker, Sherlock leaning over to let John hear it. “And it’s already happening, Sherlock. There is a traffic jam on the south bank which is currently preventing slowing traffic on the bridge.”

“Are there three luxury-style coaches on the bridge at this point?” Sherlock wants to know. 

“Yes, stuck on the north bank on-ramp.” Mycroft sounds grim. “Get here. Find Mary. She must be somewhere nearby. Hurry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s eyes find John’s and John can feel that they’re both thinking the same thing: Mycroft actually sounds worried. “We’re on our way,” Sherlock tells him. 

When they arrive five minutes later, the traffic has come to a complete standstill. There are sirens on both banks and John can see that traffic is backed up significantly on both sides of the bridge. The three coaches are neatly lined up almost precisely in the centre. Sherlock is trying to locate Mary through the tracker, but the dot won’t stay in one place. The taxi stops, caught in the bridge traffic. 

“Is this as far as you can go?” Sherlock asks the driver. 

“Afraid so, sir. Something’s going on, that’s a certainty.” The driver is apologetic. 

“That’s fine. We’ll get out here.” Sherlock pays him and they pick their way through the traffic, passing All Hallows By the Tower Church and running down the pavement past flocks of tourists, making for the riverbank. They’re still running, alongside the water now, when an explosion goes off. 

John stops, ducking and covering his ears instinctively, seeing Sherlock do the same out the corner of his vision. When his ears stop ringing, the air is filled with crackling static and on the bridge and on buildings all around them, large screens come on, flickering and filled with snow. Then the static clears and video begins to play, dozens of screens all filled with one well-remembered, and at least in John’s case, thoroughly-hated face: Moriarty. 

“John,” Sherlock says tensely. 

John can’t make himself answer, his eyes rooted to the screen. It’s very similar to the other video, with Moriarty’s face more or less unmoving, just the mouth engineered digitally to flap like a marionette’s. “Wait,” he says, wanting to know what Mary is going to say through Moriarty’s face. 

The voice is distorted but sounds recognisably like Moriarty’s. “A voiceprint algorithm,” Sherlock says under his breath. They can’t hear it with complete clarity, but it’s enough to get the gist. 

“Welcome to London, delegates of the World Summit on Terror,” Moriarty’s jerking mouth says. “So glad you could make it.” A burst of static punctuates this sentiment. 

Sherlock turns away, speaking quietly into his phone. “We’re on the north bank, watching it,” he says, his voice low. “Have you found the broadcaster? Or the bomb?” 

Whatever Mycroft says is not good. John glances away from the video. “Is that a yes on the bomb?” he asks tensely, and Sherlock nods, his face grave, mouth set. 

“… not terribly fond of your sort getting together like this,” Moriarty’s voice is saying casually. “So I thought I’d put an end to that. Pity about all the bystanders, but you need to understand who runs this little world of ours.”

“John,” Sherlock says urgently, holding his phone screen out. “Look!” 

John looks, startled and not aware that Sherlock had stopped talking to Mycroft. The dot marking Mary’s location has stopped moving at last. If it’s correct, then Mary is on their side of the river, almost beneath the bridge, perhaps one hundred metres from where they are. The dot is showing her to be just on the far side of the walkway going under the bridge supports, close to St Katherine’s Way. “Where is the bomb?” he asks. 

“South bank,” Sherlock tells him briefly. “We’d never make it in time, and Mycroft’s people are there, anyway. But maybe we can stop her from detonating it.”

“Let’s go,” John says, and they move quickly toward the bridge supports. Running would be too obvious now. He doesn’t draw his gun, given the tourists all around. He doesn’t want to cause a panic. 

Everyone is still watching the video, where ‘Moriarty’ is droning on about something or other. The real Moriarty never would have talked that long, John thinks derisively. They move into the shadow of the bridge and John sees Mary, standing on the far side. She’s watching one of the video screens on the bridge, her head tipped back, an amused smile on her lips, bleached hair blowing in the wind. She hasn’t bothered disguising herself, wearing her usual grey coat and looking like any other person. The only difference is that she is holding a phone in her right hand, her thumb hovering over the keypad. 

The video cuts off abruptly and John thinks that Mycroft must have triangulated the broadcaster at last. “Mary!” he barks out, and Mary starts and drops the phone. 

She makes to reach for it but Sherlock’s voice cuts her off, as steely as John’s ever heard it. “Not a move, Mary,” he says, his voice colder than ice. 

Mary freezes and raises her hands. “It’s too late,” she spits at them. “The bomb will detonate on its own in a few minutes, anyway. Mycroft will never get the traffic cleared before then. Your delegates are as good as dead.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Sherlock says evenly. 

Mary glares at them both. “David told me that you found him,” she says contemptuously. 

“Did he?” John says. “Well, we’ll certainly keep that in mind. Aiding and abetting a terrorist. Very nice. That will look wonderful for his court case.”

Mary shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“What exactly is this, anyway?” John asks her, going to the phone and picking it up. Several numbers have already been keyed in. He doesn’t know if touching anything will complete the sequence, so he carefully locks the screen and puts it in his pocket for the experts to figure out later. “You’re ‘Moriarty’ now, are you? Or is someone else trying to pass themselves off as Moriarty? Are you being paid for this?” 

A flash of pride crosses Mary’s resentful features. “No,” she says sharply. “This is about showing London – and the rest of the world – who’s in control. Your terrorism ‘experts’ have no idea what they’re up against!” 

John raises his eyebrows. “Is it you?” he asks, not particularly caring about the answer. Dimly he registers that the traffic on the bridge has started honking, voices raised. He changes the subject before she can answer. “You’ve been trying to kill me. I imagine you think you’ve been very clever, very subtle, but it’s been completely transparent. If that’s what the world is ‘up against’, then I think we’re going to be just fine, frankly.” 

Mary’s face twists in anger. “We both know that you know I was there that night at Baker Street,” she says. “You know I saw you: lying there in a sweaty pile of flesh, the two of you. You told me you were taking care of Sherlock after his overdose, and all the while you were cheating on me and lying to my face about it. I thought about killing you both then and there.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock asks, his Browning unwavering. 

Mary’s eyes dip down to the gun for a moment. “Because I’ve seen John survive without you,” she says, her voice hard as glass. “He wasn’t happy, but he made do. And he would have been happy eventually, if you hadn’t come back. But you – you’d have been completely lost without John. I’m surprised you managed at all, those two years you abandoned him.” 

John doesn’t bother contesting this. He knows the truth now and understands the reasons why Sherlock had to do what he did. “So you would have killed me to punish Sherlock,” he says, getting it now. His voice is filled with disgust. “Only you tried to hide it, make it difficult for Sherlock to be able to prove it was you who did it.” 

“Exactly,” Mary tells him, sounding smug. 

John opens his mouth to retort in response, but Sherlock speaks before he can. “If you think for one moment that I wouldn’t have known it was you, think again,” Sherlock says, his voice even harder than Mary’s. His arm is straight and steady, the Browning levelled at Mary’s heart. “If you had killed John, I wouldn’t have wasted one second doubting it was you, and if you think I would have needed hard evidence for a court case to exact my revenge, you don’t know the first thing about me. Allow me to make this extremely clear, Mary: if you had killed John, there is no amount of time or distance that could have kept you safe from my vengeance, no place on this earth that you could have hidden. I would always have found you, and when I did, you would have wished yourself dead long before I did.”

Mary’s face has grown so ugly in listening to this that her features contort almost past the point of recognition. “Then I guess there’s no point in being subtle about it any more,” she says, her voice harsh, and suddenly, somehow, there’s a gun in her hand. 

John only has time to suck in his breath, his eyes stuck on the barrel of her pistol. “Are you going to pull that trigger?” he asks, his chest tight. 

“Watch me,” Mary says, her voice even and emotionless. 

A gun fires and John jerks, for a second not knowing whether or not he’s just been shot, but then he hears Sherlock’s voice, cutting calmly through the ringing in his ears. 

“I think not,” Sherlock says, and John looks and sees the Browning smoking. 

Mary is lying on her back, legs twitching, her breath catching in her throat, shock already setting in. John feels winded, half-stunned. He looks at Sherlock, wordless with relief, then goes to Mary. There is no blood pooling beneath her, just a small amount welling in the centre of her chest. John unbuttons the coat and sees the bullet lodged in her sternum, just as her bullet lodged itself into Sherlock’s six months ago. Her eyes meet his, pleading. “Please, John,” she says, her voice thready and weak. “I loved you once. Be merciful.”

John glances up at Sherlock. Sherlock gazes back at him, looking concerned, but he says nothing, clearly leaving the decision in John’s hands. John looks back at Mary and thinks of a lifetime in prison. He thinks of the potential for her to escape and cause untold damage around her. “I loved him,” he tells her bluntly. “You tried to take him from me. Admit it. You tried to kill him.”

Mary swallows and she cannot deny it. The bloodstain spreads, creeping across the pale blue material of her shirt. 

“That’s what I thought,” John says quietly. He gets hold of the end of the bullet with his thumb and forefinger. “Then this is my mercy.” He pulls the bullet out. 

It takes Mary only seconds to die after that. 

Above them on the bridge, the honking has stopped, the traffic moving again. Mycroft’s people must have got the bomb defused, he thinks numbly. He’s half-aware of Sherlock tugging him to his feet, his arms tight around him, lips in John’s hair. He puts his own around Sherlock and thinks, _Thank God. It’s over._ He hears himself saying it out loud. “It’s over. It’s finally over, Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is incredibly gentle. “The nightmare is over. The rest is just beginning.” 

*** 

Sherlock was right, John thinks, two weeks later. There was a bit of fuss, some details to iron out, but he was right: the nightmare ended that day, in the shadow of the Tower Bridge. Mycroft’s people had got the bomb defused by the time Sherlock’s bullet found its way into Mary’s heart. It was easy, one of the bomb squad told them, after. It hadn’t been well-made, though it certainly would have taken out the entire bridge and everyone on it had Mary been able to detonate it. The traffic cleared and the delegates even made it to dinner on time. The summit on terror finished yesterday and all of the important people have gone home. He and Sherlock were required to attend the final dinner last night and Ambassador Whitfield gave a speech and toasted them. (“I’d love to know how Mycroft got out of this,” Sherlock had groused as they stood on the platform next to the podium and awkwardly accepted all the applause.) 

But it’s all over now. The bad parts, at least. The broadcaster, another technical whizz but otherwise no one important, was caught before the video finished playing. David was arrested for aiding and abetting a known terrorist. Mycroft sent someone to collect John’s things from the flat, as he refused to set foot in it again. The mortician – a stranger, not Molly – found the tracker in Mary’s arm, damaged and shunted halfway down her forearm, but still in place. Her body has been cremated, the ashes stored in a City of London site devoted to the unclaimed remains of criminals. John certainly didn’t want them. 

The news is on, the speculation of Moriarty and who Mary Morstan actually was finally dying down. They’re not really watching it, anyway. They’re lying back on the sofa, Sherlock in his arms, his head tipped back onto John’s shoulder. They’re in their pyjamas in comfortable contrast to the formality of last night’s tuxedos and they haven’t left the flat all day except to go to the store once, picking up take-away on the way home. The fingers of John’s right hand are buried in Sherlock’s unruly curls, stroking through them and Sherlock’s entire being is all but vibrating his contentedness. “I can’t believe how normal this already feels,” John muses aloud, not for the first time. 

Sherlock makes a deeply pleased sound. “Get used to it. You’re stuck with it now.” He puts his left hand over John’s and deliberately clinks the metal of the still-new feeling gold band there with his own. 

John still marvels at seeing the ring there on his finger. He’d started getting used to the idea of wearing a wedding band during the honeymoon, but it was a short enough phase. Seeing one on Sherlock’s long fourth finger is something else entirely. His breath still catches on seeing it. The boring, official part is done. Somehow, when it came right down to it, they eschewed the idea of doing the traditional thing. In a way, they already did that. Sherlock’s speech to him at his ill-advised wedding to Mary was enough of a public declaration and vow as John will ever need from him, and he’s rotten at giving speeches, himself. In the end, they decided it should just be them. And so, after they left the laboratory, Mary’s death certificate folded into a wedge in his wallet, they got into a cab and Sherlock asked the driver to take them to City Hall. 

He’d sat back then, his hand still in John’s, and John had looked at him and said, “City Hall?” 

Sherlock had looked back, his blue eyes open and unblinking. “Yes.”

“Are we getting married?” John asked. Somehow it didn’t need to be asked in any more formal capacity than that: they’ve known since the day it began that they’re both in this for life. 

Sherlock’s fingers had tightened around his. “I thought perhaps we should, now that the legal impediments are out of the way. If you’re willing, of course,” he’d added, almost as an afterthought. 

John had laughed and kissed him, not caring a fig for the taxi driver, his heart soaring. “Right now? Just – us, dressed like this?” 

Sherlock had shrugged. “Do you care?” he’d asked. “If so, we can plan something bigger. Fancier. Whatever you want. I just thought that you didn’t exactly love planning the first one.” 

“No,” John had said at once. “I don’t want to do that again.”

Sherlock had studied him. “But I thought perhaps we could do something smaller, with our friends and such. Your sister. My brother, I suppose. A dinner or something, to let them all know. When we feel like it.” 

John put his hand on Sherlock’s face. “That’s perfect,” he’d said, meaning it completely. “You’re a genius.” 

Sherlock had bent to kiss him again, then again, then pulled away and said, “Also, today is our anniversary, you realise.” 

John didn’t understand. “Our – ?”

Sherlock had studied his eyes, then said, “We met on this day, five years ago. It’s the twenty-ninth of January.” 

John had felt the emotion rise, threatening to choke him up. “Sherlock – ”

He’d reached for him, but Sherlock had held himself back a moment longer. “Don’t be angry with me, but – ”

“Not much likelihood of that at the moment,” John assured him, knowing that his face must have looked horridly sentimental at the moment and not caring in any way whatsoever. “What have you done?” 

Sherlock looked sheepish. “I bought rings,” he said. “I picked something I thought you would like. Something simple.” 

“But – yours?” John had asked, searching his eyes. “What about you?” 

“Oh, I just got mine made to match,” Sherlock tells him. “Is that all right? I wanted mine to look like yours.” 

John’s eyes had prickled and gone misty and he’d had a hard time even responding. And so he’d married Sherlock in jeans and an old checked shirt and jumper at City Hall. After, they’d gone back to Baker Street, only Sherlock had asked him to wait in the taxi, his eyes glinting with some secretive mirth, and went inside. John had waited, bemused, and Sherlock came back down with two suitcases and put them in the boot. He’d got back in after and directed the driver to take them to the Royal Horseguards Hotel. John had felt his eyes widen. “You didn’t,” he said. 

Sherlock smirked. “I did.” He leaned over and put his mouth on John’s ear. “The Tower Suite. It’s ours for the next two nights. I thought we deserved a small vacation after the past few weeks.” 

John had thought of his sickening fear, the day that Sherlock was to have left for Serbia, left forever, that he’d nearly lost him to an overdose, a suicide attempt, or Mycroft’s death mission, and of everything they’ve gone through since then, and heartily agreed with this assessment. So they’d gone and had a glorious forty-eight hour honeymoon, eating in the very best restaurants in London, going for long, peaceful walks, and doing their best to ruin as much of the bedding as possible in their luxurious suite before returning to Baker Street and trying not to marvel constantly at their new reality, at having this all the time, for the rest of their lives. 

John puts his lips to Sherlock’s temple now. “When should we have the party?” he asks. They’ve talked about a few different places, mostly restaurants with private rooms. They know who they’re inviting, but they haven’t discussed a date yet. 

Sherlock makes a thinking sound which John can feel through his skin. “I thought maybe in a month or so? Unless you want to do it sooner. Or later. I don’t care, really.” 

John gives it some thought. “No, a month sounds about right,” he decides. “That would give everybody time to set the date aside.” He tightens his arms a little around Sherlock. “I kind of want to keep it a secret just a little while longer,” he confesses. “Keep this to ourselves.” 

Sherlock twists around in his arms and puts his thumbs on John’s eyebrows, his limbs slotting into John’s like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “I know what you mean,” he says. He kisses John’s chin and cheeks and forehead. “One month, then.” He lets John have his mouth, their bodies shifting and hardening together, unabashed and unhurried. “Can we have swans? Would that be too much?” 

The kiss dissolves into laughter, mostly on John’s part. “Nothing would be too much,” he vows, getting hold of himself but still smiling with so much affection he thinks it could split him in half. “We’ll do it any way you want.” 

“Any way _you_ want,” Sherlock counters. Then – “Have some compassion for your lawfully wedded spouse, John. Take me to bed. I need you to ravish me more than you can imagine.” 

“Oh, I can imagine,” John tells him, grinning, but he doesn’t object when Sherlock gets up and hauls him to his feet, stripping what little he’s wearing away from John’s body even as John does the same in return. Laughing and moaning in turns, they stumble down the corridor to the bedroom. Sherlock pushes him up against the wall and kisses him thoroughly, leaving John breathless and hard, his hands unable to get enough of the man in his arms. Out of the corner of the eye he catches a glimpse of a small white card on the dresser. It was there when they got home from the honeymoon, printed in Mycroft Holmes’ spiky black-inked handwriting. Of course Mycroft had cottoned on by then. John’s eyes had fallen on the card, and he’d suddenly remembered what Mycroft said to him on the plane. _Look after him. Please._ He’d picked up the card, thinking, _I am. I will. Forever._

The card said only two words.

_Thank you. MH_

*


End file.
